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\ *4 


^ ■• N i 






When I was yet a child, no childish play 
To me was pleasiiig { all my mind was sot 
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do 
What might be public good. 










' i 



The Seven Yean* War in Qermanj, 1 

Repose, 34 

Colonisation, 36 

The Exodus of the Fairies, 61 

The Timber Trade, as respects the Poor Rates, 64 

A Reverie, 82 

On the Superabundance of Capital in the United Kingdom, 84 

A Song. For a Temperance Society, , 87 

Money. The Bullion Question 88 

The Lady that I Loved in Youth, 94 

Tontine , 96 

The Tower of Destiny, ^ 102 

Thoughts on Universal Monarchy, 106 

To Fate, 113 

A L^acy to Glasgow and Greenock, for the Improvement of the 

Clyde, 114 

The Ferry. House. A Scottish Tale of Halloween, 124 

Compensation, considered with reference to the late Borough Pro- 
prietors, 134 

May, 141 

The Unknown, 145 

The Universe 172 



The Southern Continent, 175 

A Song, 196 

Impulse and Motive, 196 

The Trysted Lover 202 

The History of Bille of Exchange, 203 

A Song, 207 

The History of Sugar, 209 

A Scottish Welcome 216 

Poor Adolph, 218 

The Hermit Peter, 233 

The Sibyl of Norwood,... 266 

The Biramat Stamboul^ '• • 283 

A Legend of St Anthony 284 

The Conquest of France; a Dramatic Pageant, 296 




Th« House of Brandenburg, which, during the 
reig^ of Frederick the Great, established itself so 
firmly among the monarchies of Europe, was, little 
more than two centuries ago, but of very humble con* 
sideration. By skilful address, during the ReformA- 
tion, it obtained the estates of the Teutonic Order; 
by marriage, the duchy of Cleves ; and by a succes^ 
sion of able princes, who carefully improved every 
turn in the affairs of Germany to their own advan* 
tage, it was raised to the electorate, and afterwards 
to the royal dignity. The father of Frederick aug- 
mented the strength of his kingdom by a reign appa** 



rently inactive, but in which he prepared a large 
army and accumulated treasures which enabled his 
son to make himself the hero of his age. 

Brandenburg had an ancient claim to the duchy 
of Silesia ; whatever were ^e original grounds of that 
claim, they were, at ^e accession of Frederick, no 
longer valid. Austria was in possession of an equi- 
valent, which she afterwards received back for a 
trifling consideration; and on this plea the king laid his 
pretensions to that duchy. In common honesty, he 
had no right whatever to Sil^^a, for the cession to 
Austrk, though Bcquinsd by diplomatic addxesa, n^m 
m }mt BB the coimiion cessions ^ govenunente. 

Jn the yeiur 1740, the greatBeas of die Awtdian 
f0W& seemed to foe Irrecoverably sunk, and JBsede- 
lidk, in con$eqa«ice, f»iddeiily entevecl Sileaia, jnd 
made himself master of d^ wlkok province, of wludi 
.the greatest part, with fiie county of Gla^ was eeded 
to Um by treaty, (11th June, 174S,) but he was 
.^bMged to renew hostilities in 1744. In Deeewbei, 
1745, be entered Dresden, and Silesia was solemnly 
.4^i^nued to him by the Austrian sovereign. 

Maria Theresa could not lofget the wound she had 
suflFered by the loss of tlxat duchy. The peace by 

ivUch rie leDowvocd it mm htisdlf coDdaded, wiieii 

dbe set «n foot axtifiees far its Mooverjr. The du^ 

«fteter» indeed, ^ Fied«i€k» b^mn now to be imder- 

stood, a»dit wastkerefefe netieMm w99aA pfo^ectifve 

-^po&sf wkkii iiidaced Imt to take Ae steps $he dad^ 

disB a deue to legsia Silesia. At this period tbe 

affairs of Austria were vigorously managed ; tbe wliofe 

takats of tbe House» and of its adkeioitSy w«ire di^ 

vected to the le-edifioation of the imperial Sgoky. 

OatIie22dofMa7, 1746, Maria ThareateoMliided 
•AtrestywithEliadwIli, Empneai of RuMUt bywluoh 
it was arranged, in onse Fndefick attacked tiM domi* 
WMU of eidMT of tkft eotttialMiitBy or tiM lepoyic of 
J^laad, that sneh attsd: sboold be coisideKd as a 
Jbradli of d&e treaty of DiofideiH and diat die r^t of 
Jiaria Theeentto Silesia, oedad by tint treaty, ahooU 
jttTive. It was also agieed diat the alfied poveia 
should mutually furnish aa anay of sixty thousaiid 
m^n, to feiBvest Maria T facw Ma widi the dodiy. To 
this treaty the Kiag of Poiand wasinriied to accede, 
Imt he foffmally deelined, while he secretly assujred 
the other parties of his ootdial co^opeiatioQ ; and they 
•agioed thi^ for this assoraaee^ he should hare a idiare 
nf j;he qmil, ia the evaitual pariiiion nf AePrutsian 


dominions^ according to a treaty which had been nuxde 
with that view in the preceding war. The constitution 
oi Poland did not permit him to be a party to this 
nefarious treaty, which has since been, in retributive 
justice, forced upon that country, to the extinction ci 
its very «ame, and the punishment of its profligate 

The treaty of St Petersburg, though contrived 
and finished with as much secrecy as earnestness, did 
not escape the vigilance of Frederick; and, with 
characteristic prudence, he watched the mature mo- 
ment for striking a decisive blow. 

Maria Theresa, gratified with the alliance, began 
to build ambitious projects for the restoration of her 
power. She addressed the Court of France, and on 
the first of May, 1756, concluded a treaty. France, 
ever avaricious of aggrandizement, grasped with 
avidity her profiered alliance. 

At this period France had some negotiation with 
England, relative to the boundaries of their respective 
uninhabited wilds in America; and as in every thing 
in which the former embarks, the pride of succeeding 
is a passion, she endeavoured to acquire the as- 
cendency in this dispute by attacking Hanover. The 


British nation, without considering how mach they 
hazarded British rights for Hanoverian partialities, 
identified itself with the personal cause of the king. 
This led to an explanation with Frederick, by which 
former misunderstandings between him and Hanover 
were removed, and a treaty was signed at London, 
in January, 1756, by which it was agreed that the 
contracting powers should keep all foreigners out of 
the empire. There had been other measures ar- 
ranged between Great Britain and Russia to oppose 
the designs of France, and the former required that 
they should be renounced for the more necessary co- 
operation with Frederick. 

The King of Prussia, aware of the extensive al- 
liance which Maria Theresa had formed with Eliza* 
beth, demanded an explanation from the Court of 
Vienna of the preparations which he saw a-foot. The 
answer was equivocal ; and in the meantime, on the 
pretext of military reviews, the King of Poland had 
drawn together an army of sixteen thousand men, 
with which he occupied the important post of Pirna* 
Frederick required this camp to be dispersed. His 
request being refused, he invested it with the view 

ef fercSi|f it io mwrettiet hj tamime. TJun die 
Inrated sev^i y=€ar»' war begitii*. Th« AustriaiMr ^mM 
mu^le to reUevetbe Steamy who wece oUaged to ma^ 
Tender. The PvuflfiiaBs took wp tbm wister-qoaBtcfs 
in Saxony^ seised upon the revenues^ Imed eantsi-- 
butibnei, and oompdled the eoimtvy to furnish reenikaw 
Fredenck made himself master of the azcfatres of 
Xkresden, and acquired the documents of those aUU 
aaces, of which he had been privately informed, asid 
for which, he had been led to undertake the war» 

As soon as. he entered Saxony, a process was cma^ 
menced agdbst him before the diet of the empire* 
The influence of Austria, which dictated this pso^ 
eeeding, preraikd. He was condemned fer oentu- 
macy, and, beii^ put under tJie ban of the en^pize^ 
Iras adjudged fallen from all the dignfties aad posses-- 
sions which he held under it. The circles ^ the 
empire w^« required to furmsh tibeir respecttye eoiw 
tingents of men and money to put tins sentence is 
exeentikm; but the troi^were badly eompesed,. aocl 
the. money dowly coUeeted^ 

Thea£hirs.of Maria Theisesanow w<»e amore peo<- 
mising aspeet; uniisd with Russia, Poland, and~ 


Fmneff, she fiaJ only Phmia to lemt. Efizabetby 

fintbliii to ker treatie«s Mot flixtf Aovsand awn into 

llie ield. Fraaee ac^need the fl»wer of ker armjr^ 

aaBKiuBtHi^ t9 eigMy tnofunflBd) attended ly a Tsst 

tram ef artillery, towaida Pniasia ; and besides tbe 

ccmtii^ento of the empire, the Anstrians thenraelY^ 

had cofleeted npwarcb of a hundred thousand men m 

BcAemia, imiking a eosfitionary force of more than 

two hundred and forty thonsittid, backed by the pow 

pffdation and resonrees of four of the greatest nations 

in Emi^e. The object of thb tremendous preponK 

lion was to depriye Prussia of the petty dukedom of 

Silesia, and to settle a geographical dispute between 

statesmen Telatiye to the limits of wildis in which Aere 

WBS not one inhabitant ei the same political consi- 

dmiticm as &e meanest of their menials. The force 

wUeh Frederick had to resist this confederacy was 

not estimated at more than a hundred thousand PrwK 

sins, with a body of about IJkirty tlH)Usand Hano» 

TeriaB» and HesMans. 

The Fremeh' amy moved slowly, aieumbcred wil&^ 
bagjgi^e, and feflowed by many idters^ 

The King of Pcwriov conseisuff of die Uaailstl 


nature of his resources, and convinced of the necessity 
of sparing them, resolved to carry the war into the 
territory of Maria Thereaa* His army, in three 
bodies^ accordingly entered Bohemia by three dif- 
ferent routes. The Austrians imagined that he him- 
self intended^to execute some special design, and with 
this idea detached a body of twenty thousand men to 
watch his motions. But Frederick suddenly turned 
afuide and cut off the communication between that 
detachment and the main Austrian army. Advan- 
cing, then, towards Prague, he joined his other two 

The Austrians assembled at Prague one hundred 
thousand men ; their camp, strong by nature, was for- 
tified in so masterly a manner that it might have been 
deemed impregnable. The Prussians were nearly 
equal in numbers. Participating in the spirit of their 
king, and filled with that enthusiasm which almost 
ensures success to the most hazardous enterprises, 
they performed incredible feats of bravery and dis- 
cipline ; passed morasses, climbed precipices, forced 
batteries, and, after a resistance so bold that it con- 
ferred honour on the vanquished, totally defeated 

THE S£V£N years' WaR IN GERMANY* 9 

t^eir enemies. They took the camp, the military 
i^hest, cannon, and all the trophies of complete vie- 
tfory. The slaughter on both sides was dreadful, and 
l^ch had to deplore the fall of a great general. 
. About forty thousand of the Austrians took refuge 
in Prague, which Frederick surrounded. On the 
29th May, at midnight, after a storm of thunder, a 
xocket discharged into the air was the signal for four 
batteries to vomit destruction ; a hail of red-hot shot 
^companied the more terrible meteors of bombs, and 
the city was soon in flames« The magistrates, the 
clergy, and the people with cries supplicated the 
conunander to listen to terms ; but, deaf to their 
entreaties, he drove twelve thousand of the most 
helpless persons beyond the walls. . The Prussdans, 
igrith the merciless maxims of war, forced theni back. 
The fortunes of Maria Theresa were in the utmost 
extremity, and the friends of the King of Prussia 
begaa to compute the distance to Vienna. 

In this crisis, Leopold Count Daun entered the 
stage. He had been forilied by experience under the 
greatest generals, in the most illustrious battles. 
Born noble, he had risen in the army without (k>uct 

&vwnr, by the fliow wtmemey ai mere iBerit^ widb 
mmh eftecH, and mthaut acMse. He ormecl wiAn» 
a faen miles of Pirate on the day after the battle, taui 
coIlectiii|r die hupAve^ retired to KoSn, a poet of 
gtmJt stifflDgtli. No msn better traderstood the siipe- 
rimty of the Phissian troopS) and, sensibte of the* 
effect of dielieat cm his own men, he was cautious ht 
hk dedsions* His situation embanassed the Pn»-^ 
sians ; a laige diTirion of their army was requisite to* 
mtch himv This weakened their eflEbrts, and die 
confidenee of his men reviyed. 

Frcdefick, awaze of what would be the eonseqaen^ 
C8S cf delay, detennined to dislodge him from KoKiip 
bvt ovoratlng the spirit of hts troc^s, or undervahn* 
hsg Ae capacity of his antagonist, or not awaie Ae& 
of the impurtsDce of never actings with divided forces'^ 
he aMK^ed Btmnvwitic oxdy thirty-two thousand men, 
siAaagh Ae eiMnt's army was sixty thewsand, posted 
in one of thflp strongeii^ situations, and deftmded by & 
TBSt tEaix of artillery, 

ASt tbat cei^deQee, int^aed hj sueoeai^ and se^ 
conckd b3r&FripI£ae,> could atta&pl^ was peifsnned 
by ike Prasiialis. Seven times n^idsed, l^y i«* 

n •BSVAirr, II 

tamed scfrat immt to dbe aieault, widi < 
eBflq^. Tke InodittB of die kii^ wcie n tb# CeU» 
aetiBg as bccsMatiieBi, asiil Fie d i faA Uiindf, at Ae 
head of his eavdvy,. anda a treateiidxnui ehaige ; but 
tlie Anataan&weae like socks on the sea^-akore, mat 
the Prussians, like die knpetuoaa waves^ wete oon-* 
slairtly driven hack* They quitted Ae field. Every 
suBfortnne has its follower. Though the King of 
Prams was not pursued, he was yet obliged to raise 
the siege of Pn^ae, evacnate Bohemia, and take 
re&igein Saxony. 

Thns Fate, which hot a short time before menaosd 
MHaria Hieresa, frowned upon Frederidc; bat the- 
J EflTOsight of t&e man rectified the errors of the king^ 
He remaned m Saxony, soffiering the imperial army 
to advance towards Misma, and even to threaten 
LeipsSc widt a siege, before he. begm to ast» fiBs- 
resolution was to fight aa near Minia as poesible, 
and in the wdnter; because if saceessfui, he woold 
prewmi the Aostriaas fikmr recovering' Aev kss tiiat 
year^. andif hefidled,. he ooalid letke into* Saisony. 

On llie 37di Obtobar he coObeted his foiaca, and 
marched to the confines of AGsnia. The alMed 6er» 


mai^ and French fell back as he approached, but on 
the 5th November the two armies met at Rosbach. 
The allies amounted to fifty thousand men ; the Prus- 
idans did not exceed half this number, but they were 
headed by Frederick, who, before the battle, address- 
ed them to the following effect : — 

*' Companions, the hour is come in which all that is 
or ought to be dear to us, depends upon our swords. 
Time permits me to say but little, nor is there occasion 
to say much. You know that no labour, nor hunger, 
nor cold, nor watching, nor danger you have borne, 
I have not taken a part in ; and I am ready now to 
lay down my life with and for you. All that I ask 
is the pledge of fidelity that I give ; and, let me add, 
not as an incitement to your courage, but as a testi- 
mony of my gratitude, from this hour, until you go 
into quarters, your pay shall be doubled. Acquit 
yourselves like men, and put your trust in God.** 

The effect was such as always follows magnani- 
mity. The emotion of the soldiers burst into shouts ; 
and while their bosoms beat with the frenzy x)f glory, 
their eyes flashed with heroism — ^the assurance and 
omen of success. 


Frederick led on his troops; the enemy gave way 
in every part, and fled in disorder. Three thousand 
,lay dead on the field; eight generals, two hundred 
and fifty officers, and six thousand private men, were 
prisoners* ^ Night alone saved the fugitives from the 
vengeance of the pursuit* 

In the meantime, another division of the Impe^ 
rialists laid siege to Schweidnitz, and obliged it, with 
four thousand Prussians, to surrender. But another 
.division of that army was under the walls of Bres- 
law* The Imperialists, hearing of the defeat at Ros- 
bach, advanced to attack. This army sustained the 
assaidt with amazing intrepidity, and the slaughter 
of the Austrians was prodigious. They retreated^ 
and the Prussians unexpectedly took the same reso- 
lution. They had suffered greatly, and were appre* 
hensive of a total defeat. The Austrians in conse- 
quence saw themselves with astonishment masters of 
the field. 

After the battle of Rosbach, Frederick advanced 
towards Breslaw; the Austrians quitted the camp 
which had been abandoned by the Prussians, and, 
-confident in their numbers, resolved to give battle* 


Oa tke dih Deoeanber, the aimiesnet at Lasdbien. 
Tlie gromid whick the Ansirimiis ^ceiqHed ivms a 
pfa&a, here suid ikefe ikmg iaJto aaiall eminenees. 
On diese wwe ^boted jundUerf , aad the dicbete 
ivere also turned to adTantage* To impede die ape- 
rations of the Prussian caTahy, laige tvees ivUch 
ornamented «the -pkain in front, were £died as they 

la this fiituatMtt, and thus defisoded, Daun re^- 
•4»ed under his eomaiand verenty thousand me&k^ 
The Pmaoan aimy, harassgd by a long march, did 
3HDt escoeed th]xty-«ix thousand ; but the dispotttioas 
of Daan's aamy -were imfy 6k defeaoe — die gesii» of 
ifae Prassiaas excelled in attack. 

The battle resembled the assault of desultory form- 
ications, Hid the Prussians were suecessfid instoim- 
mg them* Six thousand Austriaaa were slain, and 
£fbeen thoasand tidusi prisoners, witli imimense stoves, 
and above two hundred pieces of cannon. The Pms- 
ismns, immediid^ely after the vidory, hdd siege to 
Bveslaw, whidi eapttub^ed on the 2^ December ; 
Ae garrison, thirteen thousand men, were made pri- 
soners ; and the duchy of Silesia, wUch seemed ra- 

.1WC fiCrSH Y£Am' WAA IK OKBJIAinr. 15 

corded to Mana Theatta, was thus, by tlie fickle- 
nfifli of £ott\mey vqpofiseased by Fndeack. 

Tbe liavoc of the kst can^aigm produced ao < 
JmeB hr peaoe. The eonfodecates wot nrtker 
jtated tium idarmed by ihe sucoeases of Fradeiick» 
jtad the French drew themaelvea into cloaar affianee 
wkh the AufitriaiiflL The alliaaee between Fredendc 
4ttd the Biitiah was likewise drawa finner. Oa the 
11th April, 17589 Great fintaia engaged to pay him 
a Bttbaidy of JL61i)^00Q^ aad Aot to aiake peace with* 
0ut Prussia. 

. Fredeiid^ this year reaolved to enxxy the war into 
Moravia, and Jdaria Theresa omitted no effort to 
f^air h^ losses;, Datt% horwerec^ was aot in a 
ooaditian, enrea at the end of May, 1758, to giye 
battle to Fxederidk. 

Whale the Pniasian aimy Imd ilege to QUmuts, 
he plaeed Us foyrees in tbe mountainous ixmntry be- 
twe^i Gewics a»d Lettau, wh^se he orald not be 
.aUadced, and secaring an intercourse with the £ertile 
jdains of Bohemia, was enabled to harass his enemies^ 
4Bid to iati^rcept the eonroya sent to them from 


Ollmutz, by the extent of its works, is not easily- 
surrounded; so the posts of Frederick were often 
weakened by the extent of country which they were 
•obliged to occupy, and Daun firom time to time avail** 
jng himself of their condition, frequently succeeded 
in throwing succours into the town. These enteiv 
prises kept the Prussian camp in constant alarm. 
The king endeavoured to draw Daun into an en- 
gagement, but he was not of a character to play at 
hazard, nor tempted to stake advantages possessed 
on the uncertain issue of battle ; his object was, to 
frustrate the Prussians of their supplies, and he suc- 
ceeded in doing so by skill and generalship. 

In the meantime, the Russians were coming down 
upon the Prussian territory; already the Cossacks 
and Calmucks ravaged the borders of Silesia, the 
precursors of the devastating storm of barbarians 
lowering behind. The judicious measures of Daun 
counteracted the schemes of Frederick, who saw that 
OUmutz must be renounced, and Moravia abandoned. 
Nevertheless, the alert genius of this enterprising 
monarch, though baffled in the attainment of its im- 
mediate object, was not dismayed. Instead of re* 


turning into Silesia, he took his way through another 
part of the Austrian territories. To the last moment 
in which he determined to raise the siege, he con* 
tinued the fire. In the evening he struck his tents, 
and had gained a full march before Daun was inform- 
ed that he had moved from his ground. 

By the retreat of Frederick, Daun was enabled to 
act on the offensive* He accordingly resolved to at-*' 
tempt the liberation of Saxony, and suffered the king 
to proceed towards the Russians that menaced the 
Brandenburg territory. 

At this time the imperial court was highly elated 
with recent successes. The little consideration hither^ 
to maintained towards Great Britain was thrown off* 
On the 2lst August, George II., in the capacity of 
Elector of Hanover, with all the other Germans, con- 
federates of Frederick, were threatened by the Aulic 
Council with penalties, indignity in person and estate^ 
and every extremity was resorted to, but that of 
actually putting them under the ban of the empire. 
This decree, principally aimed against George II.> 
is a mournful instance of the ingratitude of courts^ 
and the instability of the friendship of kings* 



MBxift TheMaN^ m tfiia. pnM»edlia^,. showed htmr 
lighdjr tiia greatest favows; ase, esteesned. in^n^part^ 
She fofgot,. tiiat by the genaxntty o£ the vcoificablft^ 
TmmaBckfdm'waB enabled to irmintain haroitxti^^iiB^ 
amir tkit by him lAe was empowered to;israe. th&Tazjr 
arm with which she meniKsed himw ' 

Dtton^ tkongh; one of die most fmieaat genendii of 
whow hbtoiy affords memorials, was^ by his sapenar 
caatidn^ o£bnt) actually impmtdent;. Hi», mei^emente 
towaode, Sa«my were chaiactensed by die dow: eonn 
elusions of his understanding ; asad while, he medS* 
tated an different plaa% Frederick fought and £s- 
comfiied the Busmnsy and waft retaBiDg' flusfaed:^^^ 
idetoEjr to g^¥e him battle;. 

On die 13di of Octobei^. in die dead of nigh^ 
Saun seong no altem^ve,. ady^icod* wl thiee eo«- 
lumns toward the ligfatr.of the PmsBtan canp^widchi 
he leadlted at five^ o'clock nest mmsiing. Thfe Phoek 
sianft: had not time to strike their tents when &fr 
a^ack: b^ran^ The oelebrated Mandbdb Kettk ucr- 
ceived two^ mndEet-baIl%. and £dl on: the spot^ and 
j^tince Francis, of Brunswudi,. hadi Us haadi shot offT 
by a cannoD^ball^ as he stood: by his hcsser ready tm 


bolFrdfesidcB^lnae&riiyiw^^ iSkem 
ImcBy and neseised the «b»7 finm tke confiiaiea of 

TJie PcaflBaEui finglit with their diaractem^ hk^ 
taepidstf » The Axataiama TpmaxeJk m freifa; tnofm 
iriiereree the battle raged fiereest. For five houn tha* 
eogageiomt iras cbodbtful, bmt at last tba Pnmioin 
began ta fial^-aiid the king Mvndad a retreat. Thvjr 
lest semn thoaBand nan, — ^the Auatriana about five 
dtouaaacL Daun acquiaed ike field,, bat Fiedeiick 
aaDQiflfliBhsd laa retrealL 

The fientt a£ Bami's saeeees enabled hka to : 
hb ]dns for thar zcaeua of Saxony* He 1 
adisaneedy afiai! varioiis inetnittdesaUe epemtkins, wkk 
dboiclsixtytiiioasBBdinenrtowaidsDresdeik Fredendc» 
haidng aeooTered in soma degree the effeete. o£ tken 
dJaoBtirr,. TmBrohad? em tlie same: day that Daun zeadwdl 
the capital, to oppose him. The town waa buft 
iflieaiily fioartified,. the gandaon^^waak ; and the g!i»vecaor 
peseeeiyi&g that the .Amstesaaia would annoy him fir^aa 
the aobiisbflv detenaiBed tc^ oali them^ en fire« 

Tbr sabttsbsf o£ Diiosden ^Dn^eaed one of thn 
finest tawiuh m Eanipe. £a tibem the wealthieai 
dihabkanlB resided) and ibe manufiictares were carried 


on, forwHch the place was celebrated. Daun, appre-* 
bensive of the consequences of destroying so fine a 
portion of the city, endeavoured to intimidate the 
governor from his purpose, by making him personally 
answerable ; but he replied to the threats as became a 
soldier. " I will not only bum the suburbs if you 
advance,*' said he, << but will defend the town street 
by street, and, at last, even the castle itself, if com- 
pelled." The ma^strates fell at his feet, and im- 
plored him to change his resolution. Part of the 
royal family, who still remained, joined the supplica^ 
lions of the magistrates, but he continued stem. 
Combustibles were laid in all the houses. At three 
o'clock in the morning of the 10th of November, the 
torches were lighted, and the signal given. Soon 
the crackling of destruction was heard ; the flames 
burst from the roofs, and the Prussians retired into 
ttie town. 

Daun saw the rising flames, and sent empty threats 
to the governor. The Saxon minister made grievous 
outcry to the Diet of Ratisbon, and the emissaries of 
the Court of Vienna forgot that mankind have me- 
numes, and talked of this as unheard of guilt. . 

The burning of the suburbs secured the town, and 

THE S£V£N years' WAR IK GERMANY* 21 

Daun was obliged to retire — ^the best proof of the 
hardihood of the measure. On the 20th November, 
the King of Prussia triumphantly arrived at DresdeD, 
and the Austrians retired into Bohemia, 

Frederick having thus twice acquired the mastery 
of Saxony, resolved to consider it as a conquest* He 
ordered such of the counsellors of the King of Poland 
and the adherents of the court, as still remained there, 
instantly to depart ; but while he breathed thb order 
on his enemies, he did not treat the inhabitants as 
subjects* History would veil the acts of oppression 
by which the commentator on Machiavelli^ showed 
how well he understood the practice of those maxims 
which he pretended to refute. 

The pecuniary distress of Maria Theresa was, at 
the beg^ning of the year 1759, of the most necessi- 
tous kind. Her armies had suffered severely, and 
her hereditary dominions were greatly laid waste. 

The house of Austria has a strength peculiar to 
itself; more deficient in revenue than almost any 
other great state in Europe, yet, from the character. 

^ Frederick has written a commentary on the Prince» 


of itssal^eete, nid'tJte i»ta« of i<»temtimal tenorefl^ 
it i»b€ttler Mk^ tinem most other eiriMzecl powem #9^ 
iBaiBt&iiia¥igorou»war. Her tcfFiitories areample and 
fertile, and thei^alHtimtB, leoking-fwrwaTd to veSitatf 
o«nq^o% submit: wi A alacrky^ to ike hatbMp of 
^ymg fi«« (pnffters to-the soldiery, and the soldiery 
are eontentmA a plenlafel tafol^ in* Sea oi pay. 

Austria is* not a State, froili the nature of itei' 
dvemnstaaceS)^ tfaair can erer produee decisive ^feefli 
on^ the o^p coontaes^ in Enxope, bmt its^ i^enorrela-* 
t3iR» amr admirably ealeulated' to maintsifn itself. T&e 
.fane «ff a pwmuarjr reT«ni« m^ it for acting be- 
yonci itis^ o)||ih jmradietioff mth Aati effect Vfbich mighf 
be expected from its greatness; For nourly ibree 
bundioi years it has^ in ccoisequenee been decKniag, 
Its more aetir?e and rkh neighbomvhave becsa Ic^ing 
it graduaH^y and never has i(^ unassisted, aet^ vn&k 
effidest effect on tbem, nor ever ha» it heea able t9- 
maintain in all that time' any war with adequate 
Tigour beyond its own dominions. But to return 
to our histfl^. 

The affairs of the year 1759 were not so brilliant 
as either of t&e prececBng. Bkun seemed to trust 

to tlie €lCTeIiq>em8iit of advantageft duit would ama 
firom a system that partook more o£ the ddEanaive 
tbaa offensive. He reoofveiKd' Dwadeii, but die Pnuh 
aan&atill letained the beat, part (^ Saxony. 

▲ wlnte£ remaikably severe sueoeeded t&e eana^ 
paign^ and the rigour of nature almoat equalled die- 
guilt of mann Mrda fall dtad fiom the «r, tatd aeih- 
tinela^ warn finraen to dealfap— diseaflea whieh began in 
the: armiea diffiiaed thsmaeLves ainoi^ Ae Saawny 
aad made dreadful havoci — a pestilence seiBed upQ& 
tludr cattle — ^frmina was added to dio afBiiitiona of 
that unfartunate pe£i^l% and. tfaesa waa no proapecl 
of rdief. 

The King of Pniasia had sustained, gveat lasaeaN 
Besides the wounded^ and the tfaDU8fuid» diat hadi 
perished, he had lost,, smoe theyear 1756,.ft»ty ga^ 
nends, either slain in. battle or dead of disease;- but^ 
stilly by his inde&t%able industfy^ i^<> gi^ ^^'^^ sB^n^ 
in his ranks. They no longer eonsuted^ however^ 06 
the same troops with which he had commensed the 
war,^ and his own* hooisuL was. to supply that dfefi- 
dency of discipline wbidi new recruits necessarily 
£elt; Hb alUed enemies were each graatfisrlhaBhim^ 


self, and vindictiye, for the blows with which he had 
chastised them. 

• Frederick, fully aware of his circumstances, resol- 
ved, according to his original scheme of the war, to 
reserve himself for the close of the year ; by this 
means he acquired time for the discipline of his new 
troops, and in the event of success, he prevented his 
enemies from speedily redeeming their losses, while, 
in case of defeat, he provided for his retreat. He 
fortified himself, with a numerous train of artillery, in 
a situation which enabled him to protect the most 
material parts of Saxony. Daun , perceiving his design, 
covered his army with fortifications, while Laudohn, 
with a strong disencumbered army, sometimes threat- 
ened to penetrate to Berlin, at others affected to join 
the Russians ; and, after a variety of feints, succeeded, 
on the 23d June, 1760, in defeating General Fou^ 
quet, with great slaughter. He afterwards took 
Glatz, and by that means laid all Silesia open to 
the Austrians. 

In the meantime, Frederick was occupied in 
Saxony, but no sooner aware of what Laudohn had 
performed, than he resolved to march towards Si- 


lesla. Daim, apprized of his intention, determined 
to thwart him, and the two armies continued their 
loute through Lusatia; but Daun got the start of 
Frederick. None daunted, however, the king sud- 
denly altered his course, and, while the other was in^ 
l^esia, started up like a mine before Dresden, and 
laid siege to it with the utmost vigour^ All Europe- 
was surprised at this manoeuvre, and a deci»on, formed 
in consequence of the frustration of a design, was 
considered as a premeditated and masterly stratagem. 

Dresden, after falling into the hands of the Aus- 
trians, had been fortified with additional works. The 
burning of the suburbs to keep them out was of ad- 
vantage, when they had to defend the works; and 
General Macquire, the governor, replied, when sum- 
moned to surrender, that it was impossible the Klng^ 
of Prussia could have been apprized of his being in- 
trusted with the defence of the town, otherwise so 
great a captain as his Majesty would not have made 
such a proposal to an officer of his standmg. " I am 
resolved," said he, ** to defend the capital, and to 
resist the king to the Utmost." The siege wad 

VOL. ir. c 

26 THE &EVSK years' WAA IK GSilMAVY. 

Dauii, in Silesia, beaang of tbe bald decision of 
Efedtridc, ifiooiediately returned^ aiid, (m die 19th of 
Jun^ appeared witLin a league of Dresden, but id» 
approach only caused the Prussia&s to jedouble dieir 
efforts* On the 21st he threw 4n reinfarcenfintB to 
Ae garrison, and Fr^erick saw that it was useless to 
Gontiniffi besieging an army within .the towii, wldle 
liarasBe^ by another without. The siege was raised. 

From Dresden^ Frederick, leaving Daun behin(], 
resumed his march 'towards Silesia, imd reached Xiig- 
nitz. BauD, pursuing him^ effected a junction with 
otb^r dirision^ and began to act offensively. He 
reconnoitred Lig.nitz, resolved rto attack Frede ri ck, 
and to do it under the covert of ni^ht. Every thing 
^as arranged in the most cautious manner that thte 
most prwient general of the age^could su^42st. When 
v^e dariiiness closed in, the whole of Baun's jbrce be* 
^gan to .move, but nothing was seen, only a noise aS; 
of many waters arose on all sides* Presently it was 
understood that the |>atrols which had been advanced 
as the feelers of the general body, returned, and said 
they could find no ou^osts. The day dawned, and 
the Prussian camp was deserted ; a thick «moke and 
a distant cannonade drew.the attention of the asto* 


nislied Austrians. • It was Frederick, akeadjr succest* 
M7 engaged with a division of their army. 

On the evening of the 18th of July, he had been 
informed of the Russians' approach, and, at the same 
time, secretly apprized of the Austrians' design. Sen* 
lible of his danger, he at once resolved to abandon his 
camp at Lignitz, but in doing this, he fell in with 
Laudohn's division, and it was with it that^he was 
engaged when Daup beheld him at the break of day. 
In this affair the Austrians lost six thousand killed^ 
wounded, and prisoners; and the Russians were so 
much alarmed, that they deserted their allies to save 

• However, to vindicate the stain whidi they had 
suffered at Lignitz, the allies entered Berlin, whidi 
they treated with more clemency than might have 
been expected* They kept possesdbn of it only four 
days, but in their retreat the country suffered more 
than the city did in their possession. 

On the 3d of November, Frederick conceived his 
affairs to be in such jeopardy, tbat he saw no other 
dbance of retrieving diem but by eiq^aging Daun with 
manifest disadvantage. A battle took place accord* 


ingly. Daun acted with all the firmness of the greatest 
general ; but there was a genius for war about the 
Prussian monarch, superior to all prudence, and if 
not victor, he remained master of the field. On no 
former day had he displayed equal talent ; wounded in 
the battle, his energy rose with his difficulties ; and 
his conduct on that occasion surpassed the admiration 
of his friends. 

The war had now raged for five years ; nothing 
had been gained by either party. Thousands were 
slain — fertile tracts desolated — magnificent cities 
burned — ^kingdoms visited with every species of ca^ 
lamity — and sovereigns themselves began to taste 
the misfortunes which they had brought on their sub- 
jects. ^ 

In the spring of 1761, the allies agreed to offer 
peace, France, the instigator of all the calamities of 
Europe, had felt so many mortifications from Great 
Britain, that she grew tired of the war, and with her 
originated the measure. Augsburg was appointed 
for the negotiation. Every thing promised well; 
but while the work of peace was apparently prosper-* 
ous, she was secretly arranging the family compact 


of the Bourbons. After several useless ezcbanges of 
papers, the separate negotiation between France and 
England was broken up, and the Congress at Augs* 
burg never took place ; but the French gained by 
their manoeuvres with Spain greater advantages than 
the greatest victories, occasioning the resignation of 
the elder Pitt, and the haughty but inert monarchy 
of Spsdn was added, in consequence, to the alliance 
^ith Maria Theresa. 

Europe, at the beginning of 1762, presented A 
troubled scene. None of the confederates were dis« 
posed to relent, but the most remarkable circum- 
stance in this crisis was that virtual alteration of the 
balance system, by Austria and France, which had 
been instituted in the time of Leo X., and maintained 
at the expense of many wars. 

Although France in the course of the war had 
suffered many discomfitures, and though the British 
nation gloried in the renown of their arms, yet now 
when the passion of the time has subsided, a calm 
survey of the state of nations obliges us to dmw 
conclusions unfavourable to the soundness of that 
opinion which has been held of the administration of 

39 TVS WTXtf Ysajia wab iir obumamt. 

tke fijcftt Ktl. Fcanee, it is true, was disgraoed In 
mil h^ BaTal and nsdilitary moyementi ; bat Ber dipkv 
auurjr tvss tnuwcendendy aucees^bl, and excelled all 
ker warlike artifices fost tlie acquisition of power. Be* 
fbrelierrevolafion, Austria, by the alliance of 1756^10^ 
directly acknowledged that she felt herself in need of 
Ae aid of France, and Versailles was not frequented 
ky spirits that would lose the effect of this alliance. 
The moment that Austria ceased to be jealous of 
JPnoiee, h^r genius acknowledged rebuke^ and the 
ascendency of the latter was obvious and progresfiiye. 
'The present age has seen the effects, and tasted the 
hitter frui^ Austria has more and more sunk; hat 
iSoTtA to regain the rantage-ground bare only served 
to weaken her strength, and to leave her, at the end 
of each new struggle, lower and more depressed than 

On the 2d January, 1762, Elizabeth, Empress of 
BuBsia, died, an inveterate enemy of Frederick ; by 
heat deadi, Maria Theresa lost as true a friend as 
•01^ be expected in a princess, as ftitUld an ally as 
m Bussian court is capable of predueiBg, and a co- 
adjutor st ia wi iht ed by personal rancour agakist thcabr 

YBB m^fMSSf TK«iW* WMm int aBKMAjnr. SI 

fte^ Sk^ was Ibe dM^^Mm^ 6f ^tefr ife 
Greoi^ and lidieriled die Ti^oor ef bis mimi, mad il^ 
efl aiBwa a ofli rfMa ponioii& Tb« ckavaeter e€ kev MMk 
cesBor pMnised btppy friAs to }m inili^cets, bttt ki» 
in» obI^ a A g o r g t kid liegidntor. Tktnhilig that 
naaibfepd woakt aeqoteMie Kke WAt h m m ia llisi pi»- 
J0etSy ke canrM tbem nto efSect wkA 
despotism : meaning only go«d, be ptodttetd : 

r TEefiist p^tiieal manmtnili of the 99W iSlmpmnr 
«f Rmm WM a iedmSm of amtnlkjri* A# war 
^agamt Fredmcfe ;^ ho afterwards affied: htaioetf widk 
Aat hkig^ whiii^ enaMed hha to act agam on iibe 
^mshtfi. Qa Ibo 19lk of Msy^ a divisibo of^ tha 
Fk»a» acfliyv comatajMbdr bjr P^inco HemjTy dl»- 
ftadted ft body of Ae bipenalistSy and aeqabsd^ ia 
ooneqaoBce, the maBtety of Swmdtv 

Fiedm<^ vmmSart^d by ite Rttssioa^ whtr bad 
been lately agamst bim, ^wf j MQJ to takio tiis ftrii^ 
bathrfainodl ao^ ob^ipB adtranta^ an^ bis anta<» 
gonist Daun retreated to the extremity oi IKMk. 

Arbitraiy hmgi^Miaij maiiMit gi^ahTii ofeaeaaagainst 
with iayqaaty tiamm Bmilodi iwwMi^ 


lihey are also more exposed to the retributiou of their 
people. Peter III* of Russia rendered himself ob- 
jQOxiouS) and being deposed, his wife, who, under the 
name of Catherine II., seated herself on the throne, 
4Uid exercised a degree of ability rarely seen in so*- 
^ereigns, decided on remaining neutral in the war, 
and recalled the troops which her husband had sent 
,sto assist the King of Prussia. 

On the 21st of July her orders arrived at the allied 
'^amp for the Russians to return home. Frederick, 
'jQone daunted by the change, resolved to attack Daun 
before that general could be informed of the news, 
and next day he engaged the Austrians, abd was 
•successful. Perhaps no incident in the history of 
Ji'rederick shows the alertness of his character so dis- 
iinctly as this affair ; but it may be considered only as 
a brilliant sally of genius, than as one of those events 
which deserve to be regarded as great, by the great- 
ness of their consequences. 

Austria, tired of the war, concluded a peace at 

lYhen the many vicissitudes of the seven years' 
war are considered, the mind turns with shuddering 


from the thought of the dreadful things which man, 
in the wantonness of power, may be tempted to com- 
mit The peslce of Hubertsburgh was an agreement 
of mutual oblivion and restitution. The royal game 
was finished, and the mpnarchs rose from the board 
as they had sat down. 

[ ^ 1 


How tranquil on the amber sea 

The golden light of evening glows ! 

And soaring smoke and listening tree 
Bid Idsure sing and toil repose. 

From village green, the shouts so gay 
Swell musical, by distance sweet ; 

Glad sparkling streamlets leap and play. 
And gleeful bats their flights repeat. 

O'er all the landscape wide and far 
The shadowy shapes of twilight spread. 

And kindling shines the silver star. 

That gems the western mountain's head. 

At such an hour the calm sea wave 
Comes fondling to the peaceful shore ; 


And boats are launclied, and fishers brave 
Rig the tall mast, and poise the oar. 

Far o'er the deep, the beacon's eye 
Beams br^^ with hope ; and ringing clear^ 

The curfew telk the passer by, 
Of blithesome hearths and chimney cheer. 

The weary then delighted rett» 
The sad forget their boaom's pain^ 

And welcome waits the lingering guest^ 
That wends along the tedious plain. 

Soft whispering to the gentle heart. 
Benignant >btuie speaks of bibs. 

And care and grief pause or depart ;-<' 
The earth hath times of ha{^ineia. 

{ 36 ] 


A MAN is very apt to estimate the value of what he 
has done, by the attention which he himself may have 
bestowed on it On the subject of Colonization I may 
have fallen into this error, for undoubtedly, though, 
my system requires but a small space for explana- 
tion, it has, in upwards of five-and-twenty years, occa- 
sioned to me more reflection than any of my literary 
productions; indeed, than all my other works put 
together. • I therefore entreat indulgence while I 
offer it to public consideration. 

During the late war, my attention was somehow 
drawn to the great armies then a-foot, and a kind of 
wonderment was awakened as to what would be the 
effect on society, when such vast masses were broken 
up, — They consisted of men in the prime of life, bred 
up in predatory habits and reckless pursuits. Peace 


seemed as fraught witli perils as the condnuanoe of 
war; and yet war could not ever be oootinued, though 
mankind almost seemed to connder it as the natural 
and necessary state of society. 

This train of thought, with the objects around me^ 
and the ruins among which, at that time, I was com* 
paiadvely a solitary wanderer, being months together 
without using my mother tongue, caused me to see 
a utility in the magnificent follies of the andents,*- 
something which made them venerable as monuments 
of a blind political wisdom. Pyramids, walls of Chinay 
and Babylonian towers, became hallowed as ezpe* 
dients of great statesmen, to employ the populatioa 
of nations in periods of tranquillity, and they thence- 
forth, for ever in my mind, ceased to be regarded as 
the prodigalities of ostentatious kings. 

When I had satisfied myself that the mighty la- 
bours of ancient ages served a public purpose, and* 
that those works, to which we apply derogatory 
epithets, were the result of benevolent instincts, I 
became persuaded, that in the commercial and manu* 
&cturing systems, subsequently developed, there was 
afield opened for the employment of men in addition. 


t» die pfofmon of ankis, by wUch tlM neeenity ^ 
raitiiig' ^' wonders" wis supeisededL 
^ In this stage of things, I (9\md the world <rf C<diunL-. 
bus had been discovered ; and as the tide of iniyatiadl> 
was evidently flowing westward, I inferred from Aat 
tendency, that a region, in which there would onljr 
prevail a mitigated spirit of war, was opened, by ifisi 
eomparative solitnde, for the reception of the supenir^ 
bttsdant papulation of the old world, in whidi, by die 
growdi of Christian principles, a race was growing vp. 
iodined to sedateness and peace* In a word, I eon* 
eUered the discovery of America as equivalent to the 
«re«tbn of another continent, purposely to relieve the 
oppressed of the old, and to afEord an asyhim to those 
who were inclined to the moderation of that way cf 
life, which derives its comforts from other employ** 
ments (han the glories of our hemisphere. 

After the battle of Waterloo, the Armageddon ol 
if^e old world, the result I apprehended took place. 
Peace brought calamities, in so much that even states* 
men openly confessed that the ^' revulsion" puzsled 
dieir scienoe. It was then that my snspi^on of the 
existenee of a superabundant population in this C0Bn-> 

tgrwMaanfirnieJi toj^wdf^ fcotitWMi<— Ijrail 

eondiisioo, but I was not the less confident dMit 4hft^ 
iaSmsact yasaonnd, «ireii n^e I fl»r Temd— len 
baqr ia ^ensmg coBtmaiiees te fdliate :tlie rffsiii 
eftheiMMNr la»% «sif by tkem .the^ril^ouUlM ce- 

Jnlluft 61181% keii^ii|;«iit ior Ac siilbw m in 41m 
late .Ajnexioui imr in Upp«r <7aiMMin, .my rttantien 
"wmdsanm >to Abe er#«ni MsenFts in that piranoe» «• 
ounUeef fawishing the neajub bjeah;^ «f jiqrkig^ 
ly eemtitnenti; aadinihe twinewilione eeMBfiiaa^ 
IhegUBLiosiOffANtiBkute distwet«otieiie«f JJieoAdb 
as I called i W ^ wUek llie JM w ooBtHieflft w^e tesMdi 
qnt ef that buriii^iw ^peirtfae Canada reifij^ Aba 
bfBSt And ^pBei^cat eeknial ^^jiect -eMr leriaady bat 
v^icbt I4o<3Mioei¥#, ms nercr^dly imd a iat a ftH ty 
those who haad 4be ai^eiae miini|gfaica* it ba% 
haiF0?»% hidieace|MBaf Ahe4tfmDgiMnfflil|| » 
psaved ttpaaiii lay secead ooiiip{aiy» 4be Britisb . 
rican Laad Coimfamyi andooiild I have y a oaedcs L 
inth ngr 4iiii^ Abe Jilaim Seatia Gaa^fMiiy« I Auiky 
from the charaoter af onind I had 4»bsenred in the 


straiglitforwardneflB of Mr Stanley,* I would have 
got the whole of my colonial system adopted with 
respect to it 

While engaged in digesting a plan of opera*^ 
lions for the Canada Company, the Emigratioii 
Committee of the House of Commons was sitting' 
on those enquiries, which to have instituted, I con- 
ceive Mr Horton has not only conferred a boon on 
his country, but on mankind ; for although, theore* 
tically, there was no doubt with those who paid atten- 
tion to the subject, that the country, under its present 
order of things, was overpeopled, still the evidence of 
facts to convince the rest of the world-was nowhere 
accessible. To myself, the report of the committee' 
gave stability to opinion, and cleared indistinct notions 
from the nebulous characteristics with which they 
were invested. From that report, my ideas certainly 
took the {orm of what may be called principles, which, 
without controversy, might be communicated to others. 
I was thus enabled to complete my Colonial system, 
of which the following grounds are the basis. 

I. It is as completely ascertained by Parliamentary 
^ I do not know him even by sight. 

COU>Nl2ATIOBr. 41 

demonstration, as any &ct can be, that the populatioii 
of the United Kingdom fonnshes more labomrers than 
fliere is labour few them to do. 

II, That, in consequence, a large proportion of the 
labouring population is at present supported by the 
poor rates* 

IIL Hiat under the name of poor rates, a tax id 
levied for the support of those who would maintain 
themselves, could they find employment. 

IV. That this state of things is calculated to en- 
g^ender dangerous discontents ; people of property are 
averse to be taxed for the support of tiie able-bodied* 
and the able-bodied are naturally seditious against tiiat 
fiame of society which consigns them to poverty. 

V« That tiiese discontents are fraught witii perni- 
cious influences to the present allotments of property, 
and calculated to lead to revolutionary appropria« 

YL This state of things is now pretty generally 
seen, and various modes of changing the currents of 
men's tiioughts, and of abridging the evil, have been 
imagined, but have not been carried into e£Fect. 

yiL That the cause of this has been, by making 


4t couomxAruxm^ 

ike United Kingdoniy wUck ii the seat el tibe eml, 
fiiniiali die means of getting lid of tbe erS^ vhrn^as 
the countries to be benefited by the fiorfdnss^eof tiie 
popnlation thrown off by emignitien, shoqld bear die 
burden of the relief. 

y III. That there is much crown land in the NorA 
Ainexioan provinees without inhabitants, whieh might 
be settled by the superabundant population of the 
United Kingdom* 

IX.. That the means do not exist in the colonies to 
traai^rt Ae superabundant population to the wild 
lands, and that the mother country ought not tabear: 
that expense. 

X. That therefinre a value should be set on the: 
mid lands, whidb should be brought to sale, and the 
proceeds constituted a fund to defray die expense e£ 
trani^rtbig the able-bodied, from the mother coantrjr 
to the colony, and to defray the expense of piiUie; 
works there, in order to furnish employment to ihe 
emignmts after their arrival. 

XL That the lands should be amgned for sale i» 
agents, at die value set upcui them by Oovcamnent^ ^ 
: XIL That the land should aot be sold in retaif at 
less than a hundred per cent advanced on the Gofem- 

iliiqrto GoMFBiMiit for 

fiMin wiiiriiiHMiif ihiiin 

XIY. Thaife all cap«iim wiatovw should W db- 
fisjrcdmlef ti^ntailpnM, motamtiidtrtliewlialiw 
MlrTshHilMi amiUbie to G^reraatM, tka» ^pM- 
poctiMBi ta ^ nbs maf* be tbe ittouMinamit icK 

M.B. TfeaArsBtegvafcaqi^rwgagairts^Matead 
ef sriB^p to^eM^panitfl^ kt tba^ » i«ipal^^ 
jnaadefiwaaiine t»1 

£ciiBct^ M^wbobi flrjntes^ as dcafaea* imo ft#ie 
daika^ BtadhKB ilirii iotei iUa :--** 

iiStiha Govefflnenk fik a miiaiaiaim prica M^aa^ 
ImU hnfa^at^K^Mkittwilaall t«is^ 
:« aaaipaBa%. or 9mgti ftr Bd«' to aptats^ atfmm^ 
dasuiiny aad caoilataAi bjir &• pnoeads a iamij, 

. apa ai iita eaianawi» a»d Ja f aay Aa aaepaneaf Mmavaag: 


- This IS all toy plan, &B essence of my eog^fcalioiiSy 
and it is as practicable and simple as it is concise^ 
4iideed» towards tliis complexion has the colonial sys- 
tem been working ever since the first settlement was 
formed* I take, in fact, no other merit for the con- 
ception, than in seeing that a benevolent element was 
•mingled, as an ore with earth, with the hitherto exist- 
ing colonial prodigality, and I have endeavoored to 
smelt it. 

Connected, no doubt, with the system I propose, 

.are many tilings which perhaps require explanation, 

the more especially as it is almost established as a 

right, that an able-bodied labourer, who cannot find 

employment, ought to be supported by his parish. I 

reject this fidlacy. In England, where there are poor 

rates, to which the able-bodied labourer can aj^ly, 

ihe matter may admit of temporary toleration; but 

Scofland, and particularly Ireland, where there are 

ido poor rates, show that it is an abuse of liberality to 

•auction it An able-bodied person can naturally 

Jiave no right to a maintenance firom the labour of 

.4»dier8,--whidi receivinjg parochial fod certainly is. 

But it is one of the duties of Government to remove 

4lie impediiments wliieh ma^'lie placed in the way 
Df iu8 finding employment 

c The Atlantic is one of these, supposii^ there is 
Vork enough in America ; and if tiib be not the cas^ 
^j^oyemment should, in my opinion, undertake pub* 
iic works, out of the fund before mentioned, to 
provide it for him. To do this, is by setting a 
Talue on the wild hmds of the colony, and, as 1 
liaye said, by donstituting from the price, as they 
«re sold, a fund to overcome t^e impedimtat of the 
^sea, and to justify the Oovemment to undertake 
public works. Indeed, nothmg can be more absurd, 
Itihan to suppose the community of the mother country 
obliged to provide for her progeny, after they have 
'^leadied an i^e when they are capable of providing 
ibr themselves, though I willingly allow that it is the 
-diUy of Oovemment to help them ; and the best Way 
of doing this, is to open to them those tracts and re- 
l^ons, in which colonies may be planted* The best 
-way of lessening the evils of the old world, is to im^ 
prove the condition of the new; and to something of 
this kind my thoughts have constantiy gravitated, and 
to it, in riper years, they have been uniformly more 


nre, nor premature infimd^ abafuA tiv 

& wikwg- tlu» kief skateb, tSan ft » liope 
tbrt a kukiorwiil im|V dw loqifiMMi af 
Bwfcig <faii tiwre ■» few mww qirfet »ay« <f i 
iBgtWaHkkBticMiirfiiiadanA. Tke«MDM«fi 
JsMttometkn OevkfeiiM wiA wlikit na&al 
teBiti<M B.nMWfe lefaree<^byi ttMi i pti «g'ta< 
ttbaeflf^otridiakedweietjv Kwlodcaftl 
IS m. n. iriwIiwiMi^ fuiMi'ttialiaiij mw ft » enly uy cmIi 
isg* Mv eyes la iSm cdbn fas A t SB 8«fct|y^iahw% 
to wliidi tile exislmg firasw c^ smtety Buy^ cavie ito 

kB0wted|^ "^y ""^ eontimeu wiism. tuiMtAy- 

M.&. Htfng^adkested taiojrirMfttsfbimaLaid 
OMpMf for Nem Scotii^ I lUidE tinti ii i mr li il 
wM^ Ae steteflWQt dF the ebstecAes^ AewuKOOHi- 
deralMHP worAjr e£ attenlioK;' and Is phoe tkese m 
as brittf a fcm as pessiUe^ I kars' prcsonied ta gn^ 
s«t9eiiM^ apiivafo lettsK, wbM^Imotv «s Mr Slav* 
ley oa tl« subject;. 

coLomzATioir. 47 

(Letter addbeMcd to the K%ht Hauwrdbfe E. 6. Stealer His 
Hajeufn pfiodpri StcnCasy of Bmt £br the CokaAm. ) 

3mm Coitage^ Jaauary 3» 1834. 

Mr C d has caDed upon me, and I have heard, with extreme 
surprise, that the Crown is not supposed to possess much land 
in the prorince (l^oYa Scotia), and what it does, the Gommis* 
aioner sells in retail for about two shillings per acre. 

By die common accounts, the Crown is represented as pos* 
sessing nearly six millions of acres, and in different parts about 
two miBions of a good quality. Upon this return the idea waa 
formed of establishing the Company. I therefore think it neces* 
sary to state, 

Finit If there be not good land sufficient whereby about two 
miDions of acres could be sold, it would not be expedient to make 
the attempt to form a Company ; because a less quantity would 
not bear the requisite expense of management, at the value of 
land in Nova Scotia. 

Seeondy That the minerals in the possession of the General 
IGning Company form an insurmountable difficulty, unless that 
Company qui be induced to join a Land Company. 

And therefore, before goiog further* it seems necessary to be 

J&j/» What quantity c^ available land is at the disposal of 
Government in the province. 

On this head I anticipated that large blocks could not b^ 
sold,' and therefore intended, if the -General Miaii^ Com- 
pany were disposed to unites to ptopose to buy er acquis* 
a preemption to « given quantity, say two miUiooaofacici^ 
in any, or all parts of the province. 
&ciimI; Thai te price slkMiUL be low, toi indaee the GcfKial 
Minng Conpany to aJknw modififaliw of their gnoit. 


This modification I intended to submit previously to youf - 
B^ and to suggest, that it should be asked of the 
General Mining Company to resign their right to the 
minerals back to the Crown, in lands that had been 
granted, and that the ^ight should be o^red for^ale within 
A specified time to the proprietors of the soil. This idea 
was founded on a belief, that (saving the royal metals of 
gold and silver) the Crown has exceeded its prerc^ative 
in reserving the common minerals, or, in other words, 
reserving that to which it cannot give access, but by eva- 
ding the principle of the law ; for it is needless to state that 
the Crown has no prerogative but the permission of the 
people, and that no such grant as has been given of the 
minerals in Nova Scotia, should have been made without 
an act of ParUament previously obtained.* The mmerals 
have, however, been granted, and the quietest way of 
getting rid of the inadvertency, is by attacliing again the 
minerals to the lordship of the soil. I should here men* 
tion, that in considering this question, it occurred to me 
that the idea of buying from the General Mining Company 
their grant might be entertained. I have no idea of the 

* Since this was written, I liaye gome reason to believe that Gorem- 
ment adheres to ihe old practice of everdsing a power of reserrmg a right 
to dispose of minerals in the colonies separate from the land, and that this 
tight has been ezerdsed, after my resignation, in a recent instance, with 
the British American Land Company ; neveriheless I remain unchanged 
in my opinion. . 

I may mention here, that it has always seemed to me, that erroneous 
notioas preYiil respecting the wild lands in the colonies. Government, I 
think, assumes that it can fix for the crown lands what price it pleases, 
but there is so much wild land in the poseession of individuals, that I can 
tee the price of all lend is regulated ahMdutely by liie rate at whidi these 
individuals will edi, and aceordiogly the standard of price is ia their hands. 


value they set upon it, but it might be bought^ I should 
think, on this principle—supposing a price agreed upon, 
the existing proprietors of the soil should be required to 
pay a sum of money for the minerals in their land; that 
the works of the Company should be sold, and that thes^ 
with the price of land sold hereafter, should constitote ^■ 
fund, out of which the General Mining Company might 
be paid for their grant, without any cost to the Britbh 
nation. I throw out the hint, because, sooner or later^ 
the question will be seriously brought into consideration ; 
as it cannot be long endured, that the General Mining^ 
Company's monopoly will be suffered to stand unques^ 
tioned, pernicious as it is to the progress of the colony. 
In sounding privately the practicability of forming a Nova 
Scotia Company, I am led to believe, that supposing there is suf- 
ficient land, and the claim to the minerals disposed of, the diffi- 
culty could be overcome; — ^the British American Land Company, 
being at a premium of five pounds on the fifty pound share, and 
the shares are in request : the deposit is only three pounds per 

I have presumed to mentioii that, if a Company were to be 
treated with. Government would, in all probability, regulate itself 
by something like the principles of the Canada Company, and the 
British American Land Company. Having long withdrawn from 
any connexion with the New Brunswick Company, I am not 
aware in what respects it differs from them ; but it was my inten- 
tion to submit to yourself whether a neW company might not 
afford an opportunity of making an important and popular im- 
provement in our Colonial system, tt appears to me, sir, that 
the labourers in this country exceed the labour to be done t 
in the means of applying a remedy, I have always differed per- 
sonally from Mr Horton. My notion is, that the new countries 
should pay for transporting to them the superabundant population 
of the old, by putting a price on the Wild lands, and applying 


50 C0L0NI2AXI01I. 

tlw proceeds of ales to reaonflsthe Ubmtren in the first place» 
aad m ti» second to pcoTide vock for them on their arrival. 
The latter is done, to the extent of bdf the price, m the case of 
tlie Biilfait Ajnericm ; but nothing has been determiaedas to the 
ayprapriadon of the other mosetj, — * point deserving of attention 
8i mffikMie to Irdand and Scodaad^ where titeie are no poor 
rates to martffige, and as a bo<m 4o Bn ^an ^ where tba poor 
ntes aie haavj enoi^;h. 

i heg, sir, your hiddgence Sat tUi knig letter^ and to express 
how OKieh i am iodehted to yon, lot the trastfcial MMner Ihave 
taHB dlowed to peoeeed so fiar in an eap unwui t, Ac sssult of 
whkb, thoegh not yet sadsfiKtoij, shews the advantagecf going 
d)oat wkfa an indncct cw i Htmaf g . 

I have die honour, kc 

It may be proper to add to this letter some details 
tk^ luiTe oeeurred to me on the Plantation of CtAo^ 
nies, connected. In my humble opinion, with what 
should be the system ; but, whether right or wroi^» 
the agitation of the question at this time cannot be 
Qtkarwise thu be^cial. Accwdinylyj I siiLjoia 
what occurs to me en this head, — ^ra&er, however, to 
excke discus8t o n» with a view to determine what may 
be the best mode, thm as a pbit feradoptioii, dithovi^ 
it may seem to wear that form. 


Taking the settlement at the Swan River as the 
latest example, I consider the system of the Britsh 

colonization; 51 

Go^vermnent in the pkmlaiig af ^oclmes as mmmiitf 
«f iSie ag<e. It is net, li»wcirer» ♦» indrige in uniamji* 
versiens mi the faulfeB ef that system I presaiM to 
floHcttiiie attefitson of die Tea4er^ Irat to ofter % bm 
hints which may be condacive to its i mp w rnu soL 
2n doing this, it 'ivill net, I trust, be alleged tluftl^un 
sfttiiated by any o^entKeening ^rrrogvnce, or by a lo^rar 
mot^e than a desire to render the stadies #f WMUf 
years ki^tramental to lkt fcrtheaaaca «ff lbs ^Mm 

More than twenty-six years hav« elapsed tuiee t^a* 
leital "Object irst aameslly iatorested mm^ and any 
evdmary miad may, I conceit after so laag a 
iakikj wiliievt pfesoanpliaay that It «iight to 
sotnetbing imre than common of die atAxfoct to whick 
it may hai^ so predominancy sfpKed. in Ihat iimB 
I have not been oceapied alone with theoretiGal mp^ 
cnlatioBS on ^ecdosizi^ion: It has fidlen to my lot to 
have been ia the foregrousd at kyiag dft feimdakioft 
ctf the greatest eokmial andertaking innrUdli a gen 
Temment was not actively participant. Asid, Jkoarerar 
I may feel in either Teffpects hmdaled bj the oieaidt to 
myself, I have the satisfaction to know that tJie atteaofil 
to deviate JTrom die pisaeipkB by whic^ I was guided 


Las not been attended with advantage, and that, after 
having been suspended for some time, it has been 
found expedient to revive them, by which a return to 
national obligations assumed^ and even covenanted, haa 
been secured. 

Upon these grounds I venture to hope, that what I 
have to say will not be considered as the mere secre- 
tion of theories, but something which derives value 
from more ihan usual attention paid to the general 
subject, and from my having been led by employments 
to reflect on details. 

It seems that the colonial question should be con-, 
templated in two different points of view, and that 
what I regard as the defect of the system arises from 
a constant endeavour to look at it in one only. We 
confuse, in my opinion, the Government question with 
the mercantile, without reflecting that the one may 
become, and often is, in circumstances of war, at va- 
riance with the other. ' I would avoid this, and recomr 
mend them to be considered separately. I do not say, 
however, that they may not be frequently united ; — * 
on the contrary, I conceive they may be so, and with 

For example, I do think that occasions have risen. 


and may arise, in which particular colonies may be* 
come great sources of embarrassment to the parent 
state, and yet be of valuable importance to the mer- 
cbants engaged in the trade with them. When this 
13 the case, it is clearly the duty of the Government 
to ascertain how far it may be for the interests of the 
nation to sacrifice the one for the other, to determine 
whether the perplexity to national policy is worth 
being contended with on account of the mercantile 
advantages, or whether those advantages are of suck 
obvious benefit to the general state, that the perplexity 
should be endured. The whole question is of a pecu- 
niary nature, and it is in this light I have accustomed 
myself to view iU 

Without, then, extending what I have to say ta 
the state of the colonies already in existence as they 
toe, I shall perhaps be more perspicuous by supposing 
the planting of new colonies upon what, I am con* 
vinced, would be a better system. 

Supposing it determined by Government to plant a 
colony, I think that the first step should be to ascer* 
tain what are the capabilities of the country inttoded 
to be the scene of operations. 


> mvidkms to mentioii by aaiifae tho^ecc^ 
taat ietdenwiits ia wliidi tkiA primary pvoeee^g bas 
be«B Dcglectfid;; bill dMy will re8d% eeiwr to the iBij^ 
«C eiery one who has paid aay atteadf^i t& the 8«b^ 
Ject:;: and it nuist be fttlowed tha^ btii for tbe effiismoa 
of tbkk essential measare, disreputable baidships and 
ptrntieaa bave been suffered. I shall jusA, thenefcrc^ 
a&y more, than tliat aa iiiapectien of the coiuiiry where 
m eolimy is to* be established is ahatost indispensable^ 
iBid yet it is ne^er dene. The inspectiiMi of the Sa- 
ipemty eeimtry^ and the environs of Lake St J^hn^^ ia 
Ijim^r Canada, undertaken at the inekeiaent el Mr 
Audbew Stuart^ may^ perhaps,, be alleged as aft ex- 
ception ; but it is an exception, and not the gen/^pai 
sole ^ nor do I appreheiKl it has^ yet beea pvodacliye 
<^ any benefieial result, inasmueh as Geo¥emment have 
^etesBubied not to plant a colony al present in that 

The next of the preparative HSieasures should be <^ 
fx, fee a term of years, what shall be theptiee e£ the 

I decidedly think the land in no colony, ner i» 
any situation eligible for a cok^iy, should be granted 


fieew A Tafaie oi^t to be w^ in the Cisl plac6^ iqMU 
i^ bul &e payneiits nuif be easy. 

The proceeds of the side I would eomtitole afand, 
from wki^ &e expenses of the eolony may bo 4^ 
frayed, and the mother oonatry indemnified hr ike 
neeesBary expense wludi she most inenr in what may 
be edied the ontfit, or disborsemevts nnaroldaUe in 
llie fnrmatmi of a settlement. 

The means of constitating a colonial fond beSag^ 

' dms pffOTicled, I would propose tiiat an aoeount cur- 
rent should be «^ened between the mother coapiCry 
and die ec^oy, to die credit side of which I woaU 

^carry aU the monies artsiag' from Ae sale» of crown 
Imds in ^ colony, and place on the other all de 
expemes incurred fer the colony by the modier conn- 
try, nese expenses I would, in &e first instance, 
HsDit to what the fond alone could sostain* 

I woold make it responsible for the cost of carrying 
iohabitants to die new coun^, dke offHnramus of like 
saperabundant populatbn of the old^ 

The effect of such an arrangement wocdd be to 
Bghten the poor rates of the parent state* Indeed, it 
eansiot, I eonceire, be correct that die eonntry which 


the emigrants leave sliould pay for sendmg them away. 
On the contrary, I think the region which obtains 
theib should sustain the cost of bringing them into it, 
especially as, by the course proposed, a fiind may be 
formed for that purpose from the sales of the land. 

The same fund I would make available for the ex- 
penise of public works, on which the emigrantis aft^r 
their arrival might be employed, thus providing thefm 
withlaboiir. • ' . 

The expense of transportation, and of the means of 
employment, are all for which, I conceive, the fund 
should be held responsible. The other disbursements 
for the Government should be paid by taxing the in* 
liabitants ; but as these, in the first instance, would 
greatly exceed what could be raised in the colony, I 
, would constitute the surplus a public debt, which the 
colony should be held bound to pay. There does not 
a{5pear to be any adherence to the axioms of common 
honesty in making the inhabitants of the United Kiiig^- 
dom pay, in addition to their 6wh municipal ei^penses, 
the expenses of governing provinces ; and, thereforei 
I do think those colonies should pay for govemiif^ 
themselves, or rather that, for the expense of doing so, 


they should be held bound to repay the amount to the 
mother country, as soon as their population and cir- 
cumstances admitted. I would not, however, draw 
repayment from the fund before spoken of^ but wholly 
from revenues constituted by taxes on the people. 

It seems to me that such a system of treatment 
would be fairer than the existing mode, and would 
dissipate much of that obscurity and mystification in 
which the colonial question is involved. It would, 
undoubtedly, more gently and peaceably prepare the 
way for that independence of the colonies, which will 
take place whenever a colony feels that it can pay its 
civil expenses without contributions from the mother 
country, unless, indeed, we can introduce a system of 
law and rule that will make it the interest of colonies 
to adhere to us* 


Perhaps I may be justified in mentioning, afSter 
what has been stated in the foregoing, that, when in 
Canada, X was solicitous to obtain information re- 
specting the region of Labrador, or that tract of un- 
known country which lies to the east of the great 


lirerSaganiaj^aBdlitboimddLliyike Atbttde. Bfy | 
e&qitiries were» iMwtrety Terjr aeanlil j answvred. Bat 
I keavd o£ one &ct eraecrning H 89 incrediUe^ Aat 
I state k withoot wiaUsg to be lieI4 responsiUe fear 
its beiBg trocy aaaely, that Ike nrnge of the region 
kui thepossessien^Qii leue^ef afinroempanyof the 
Unitefi State% for a Imatiiig grouiid. 

My idea was to suggest sapposing my ^iqairies 
proved aatis&ctory, that a separate cabay (from Lower 
Canada) dioohi be plained there, and I drew i^ tke 
Otttlxaes of a prcjeet for that ptorpose^ wUdi I srin 
mitted to the Earl of Dalhonsie, aadwhkh UsLoid- 
ahtp carefuUy eonsidered^ and commented on in wri- 
tings He at the time proposed to ascend die Sagnenay, 
and did me the honour to invite me to aecompany 
bim ; but his appointment to be Commander4nKCiiief 
in India soon after frustrated the intended voyage. 

Sabsequently, after my return from Canada^ I was 
idkiwedir<rtB the Cokbial Office the loan of the Ke- 
p(»rt 0{ the ini^eetion <^ the eonntry ronad LjeJob St 
John, which had afterwards been institiited, as mten* 
timied, at the suggestion of Mr Andrew Stuart. But, 
whoever were the parties who drew up the docameit^ 

dieiiifiMniifili9ik»»q[flired (fid aoft appewr to me t» he 
of ^ kind waiileJ^ b^g» in b^ e|tinieB» aft enee tae 
otfniite and toa mig^^ aiidfar iflfener for any ftmA* 
eal puKpeae te the repert made ta myself hf Dr Dii»» 
kp^ ellhe Caoade Gempany, ea thelaige Ib«Hi tndL 
Besides^tJieexpLDriog party had never gene w the left 
baak of the Sagaeaay at all; so that the whole of 
Labrador, to which my views were directed, is yei^ 
in a manner, unknown. 

It is, no doubt, a wild and mountainous region ; 
bat between the hills and ridges there are green glens, 
and delicious valleys, and there is at least one beau- 
tiful harbour opening into the Gulf of St Lawrence,, 
to whidi the ice only occasionally, as I heard, pre- 
vents access. The country, indeed, is one of those 
regions which, I conceive, the Government should 
explore, with the view of making it the nursery of a 
colony. It is bounded on the south-west by the Sa- 
guenay, a stream little inferior in the volume of its 
waters to the mighty St Lawrence, — along the north 
by the shaggy territories of the Hudson Bay Com- 
pany, on the east by the ocean, and on the south by 
the Gulf of St Lawrence, It is far from the Ameri- 


cans, and protected by the sea ; and the French popu- 
lation of Lower Canada, perhaps, require the neig^h- 
bourhood of a purely British settlement. Govern- 
ment, I have Mr Stanley's authority for stating, do 
not contemplate at present to colonize in the vicinity 
of Ha Ha Bay, or Lake St John. Wherefore ? But 
surely there can be no reason for not exploring La- 

[ 61 ] 


Within a lone green hazel glen 

The Fairy King his court was keeping ; 

A river in its childhood, then 

A mountain bum, ran gaily leaping. 

The sward within the silvan bowef 
Was sprinkled with leaf-filter'd light, 

And gemm'd with many a starry flower, 
The primrose pale and gowan bright. 

Pleased butterflies, the mute and fair, 
Twinkled their silv'ry wings so gay. 

And pittering grasshoppers were there. 
And bees their soft bassoons did play. 

' In Allan Cunningham's edition of Burns, he prettily says, 
that about sevienty years ago, the Fairies, in a body, lefb Scot* 
land; and it is certain that about that time the great agricultural 
improvements of Ayrshire were introduced. The poem is a 
description of the Exodus. 


The elfin lords and ladies all 

From harebells sipt the sparkling dew, 
When in the midst, startling the ball. 

The frightened Puck amazement threw* 

" Up, up," he cried, ** up and begone. 

These ver^EBt haunts you now must leave i 

Remorseless ploughshares hasten on. 
Old greens and «clover lawns to cleave. 

^< The saucy sower masches proad» 
And showers the f ulure har'st around ; 

JBehind the hoirows liurtle rud^ 

And grubs and sprawling worms abound* 

^* No more our irevels w« may keep 
On plushy field or moonl^ht hill ; 

The snail with eye-tipt horn may weep. 
But b.uoaming beetles must be stilL 

** Oh ! never more the marsh-bom gnat 
Must sing to warn fair maids to flee. 

And soon the eager twilight bat 
Must hush his fluttering shriek of glee* 


** For pawky art, with wizard sleight, 
O'er nature has her cantrips thrown ; 

The moorland wild and shaggy height. 
Captive to man, the las90^ own." 

On moth and fly, and ladybird. 

Away the flichtering fiuries fly, 
And blithe cuckoos are shouting heard. 

As speed the pony insects by. 

O'er peat*moss brown and lonely waste. 

The fugitives erratic ride, 
And o'er the yellow sands they haste^ 

As if they chased the ebbing tide. 

Bat lo ! the aimless WEves retnni^ — 
The fairies see them coming drive— 

BeUnd is heard Ae plough and dram. 
And headlong in the sea they fSre. 

' The Spanish noose for catching wiU cattlew 

[ 64 ] 



The timber trade is so essentially connected with 
the interests of the North American colonies, that its 
value ought never to be estimated independent of 
them. It is, moreover, one of the most important 
branches of our national commerce.' But although 
it has been well considered, both by the political 
economist and the merchant, it has not yet obtained 
such attention from British statesmen as is requisite 
to understand it properly. 

As abstract and theoretic notions, the economists 
seem to me to entertain legitimate deductions on the 
subject, and the merchants have certainly displayed 
acumen and ability in demonstrating their case ; but 
as respects the view in which it ought to be regarded 
by statesmen, who have not only the interests of the 
merchants, but also the general interests of the com« 
munity to regard, it has never been sufficiently inves- 


tigated. The economist may form enlightened opi«» 
nions of trade, but necessarily, on account of the 
scientific nature of bis principles, without having 
respect to national circumstances* His business is 
not to look at the world, divided, as it is, into dif- 
ferent nations, but as one entire whole, and to think 
of what may be advantageous to mankind, with* 
out reference to the local interests of any particular 

The duty of the merchant is altogether different ; 
his object is his own prosperity ; and as he is, by the 
state of the world, restricted in his dealings to the 
privileges of the flag under which he deald, his inte^ 
rest obliges him to estimate every commercial ques- 
tion by a rule the reverse of that of the economist. 
He is compelled to regard the existing state of things 
as paramount and primary, and whatever tends to 
disturb it, as fraught with detriment ; for his specula- 
tions are always undertaken on a persuasion that the 
existing state will continue, and oughts to be per* 

On the contrary, the business of the economist is 
to amend this existing state, and to oppose himself 

VOL, !!• F 

6S rmm timbbk tbads* 

te^ the penaanence of that order ssd S3 stem on wkic& 
liie meiehaat so entirely dependsk The merdbant 
asd Ae eeoi»>B«si ise irreooneilaUe ; bat the states^ 
WBB evight to^ possess tibe cxpassm phsknthre^ «£. 
the one, 'with the mft^ble partialitSes ef the odien- 
A statesmttR ixast often feel himself miier the iieee»-< 
tsiljr of regnlating^ his Botioas as aa ecoaoanst, m 
deferoiee t<i the interests of the mefchaoity in eider t» 
promote the advantage of the particular commmitjr 
with whose desttaies he is kitn»te4» Wh^ni he leans 
lee much te the piindples oi the e c oa e mi st, no iaaht 
lie errs ; and when be saenfiees the interests ef llie 
latter te the prineiples of the fiBmer, he is eqnaHjr 
Mnoeaye. Bat the bfatme is not of a reij eiai^pahle: 
hoe; i« eren eentains aai ingredient pafliative of error*. 
To ineliae tewardis the tlieoiies of the eeenonist be-^ 
speaks the indolgenee due te a. liberal xosiid^ andr. 
aeeoidiiigljr he leceives the finrour of a poatton; at 
lieast el ^ eemuxaitj of whidh he is the eEgsm. ;. 
wiioreas, an <q9pesite bearing indicates a marownesflir 
of understanding unworthy of approbation, hsywvrot, 
it masf be cott g i iiia l to aeicaatik aaeak 
Ba:iring^ nwde tfieae distinctions^ I shafl now ptoh^. 


eeed to derelope vhat I coaocire AovU be thep<£cy 
«f a Biitidi statesaian in the timber questkm, pciw 
maded that it must be somethiiig^ at Taiiawe with 
tike g ene raB ty of the economist, and the specsiality of 

Li the im^ pfeee, tibe British statesman hat inte^ 
Tests to ptolect and enfaufe, paiamoimt to those of 
tiie Britadi mefehaat, and of more inqMortanoe to dw 
eommimitjr vmder his carey than the general iataiesti 
of aB theother nalieiiaef thewoKUL Besides thk 
great oUigatioB, he has a snbodiary duty to peilera^ 
namely, to e ons er n? Ae speeid int«resis of Ae Bntish 
mefduint, in preference to those of the mptrhand ef 
every other country* It is quite dear, however^ that 
the interests of the feoifie under his jarisdietion ought 
to be held abore those oi the mereaatiie comamniky, 
who eeustitute only a elass of that people^ 

This reduces the whole ^piestkm into its essimeey 
midcing the eonsideration of it easy and simpio-^ 
&et, lesol^eettinto tbi&: Can ^ genmd inteiests 
dTthe Briti^ natScm be prameted by saciificsag ihoive 
of tlM^ BriAih nmehante engaged ia ih» 
trade ? 


It admits of no cohtroveiisy) that if the general 
interests will be promoted by the sacrifice of the 
merchants, it ought to be made without scruple. 
National interests must not be held subservient fo 
those of any class of the community. The statesman 
is bound, by the obligations of his high trust, to dis- 
regard every individual interest which stands in the 
way of a general improvement; and a mercantile 
interest is of this description. No matter, for ex- 
ample, how lucrative the business of a particular shop 
may be — ^yet if that shop stand in the line of a new 
street, the opening of which will improve the town, 
it should be swept away without remorse. Compen- 
sation, however, ought to be allowed* 

The merchants and shipowners in the timber trade 
•do not look upon the question in this way; on the 
contrary, they imagine that, by showing the amount 
of their vested interests, they thereby prove them- 
selves, entitled to a preference over those who may be 
allowed to compete with them, as if they could affect 
the view of the statesman by bringing forward the 
magnitude of their stake in a trade which may have 
been erroneously fostered. . / 


While I state this, I request to be understood ais 
perfectly aware of the argiiments of the merchants 
and shipowners, and of the Weight of intellect and 
talent employed by them in their vital cause — I only 
mean to say that their statements cannot be allowed a 
pi^dominaUce with statesmen awake to the rights of 
th^ general community. Nevertheless I do think that 
the rights of the question are with the merchants^ 
and that the interests of the community are more 
wisely consulted by acceding to their solicitations 
than by persevering in the measures which have occa- 
sioned to them so much alarm; for many interests 
of the nation are involved in the timber . trade — 
interests which have not yet obtained a moiety of the 
attention to which they are entitled — interests which 
hav6 not been sufficiently Considered in giving so 
much heed to the Suggestions for opening the ttade 
with foreign states, to the injury of our own cOlonieS| 
and of our own merchants connected with them* 

Wherever an article can be procured best, the per- 
sons in want of it should have the privilege of isupply* 
\ng theimselvi^ front the cheapest markets* I assent 
to this as an indisputable general dogma ; nay, I gQ 


fiurdier, and even aflcmduit tlie Balde timber is better 
duuB that which comes from our American eoloniea* 
I do not affirm that it is, but for Ae sake cf givii^ 
erery advantage to the aij^ment of mj opponents, I 
admit litis; bat, notwithstanding, there are b^ieita 
incBrectty derived by the nation fiom the colonial 
limber trade, whi^ more, mura more, than OQtweigli 
Ae difference of price and qnaHty* 

Allowing llmt the Baltic timber is better d»n llie 
eokmial, it most follow that at the same rate of dnty 
it wonid be {referred in the home market, and that 
lh» difference of duty is therefore eqmralent to a 
foovnty in its effects on the colonial timber ; in feot» 
bot for the d^erence of duty, supposing^ the superiority 
to esdst, we should nerer think of importing timber 
fiom the American provinces. Indeed, the great bidk 
of the people, not concerned in the trade, must suffer 
a vast injury by being in sotne measure obliged to use 
the odonial timber, instead of that wiiieh iSkey may 
suppose a better kind, and which may be brought from 
the Baltic* 

If the whole question rested on the price audi 
qmdity, no doabt this would be the case ; but noASng 

xmsL Tt^jaaoL tmjlbk^ 71 

em he less saliafiuctof^diaii to eoMider it etdiet with, 
mpeet to pice mt qoalily. 

Is t&e firat place, we bsre na&iial mtotsto wliidk 
usqam. «s to foster our cmn sfasppiag' and ] 
and A» CffiDnot be ione xaolem the cemmimtj < 
8cst to aOow t^em s pefecence ia cHploynoit over 
fi»xc%s dUf6 andi saikitk 

Tl«ge»naotWwayof aeeoBi|JislMaythi»ot| y e ct 
bol by tttdng o«raelTe& to induce die proeeoitiDB of 
the tEade. I tfaer^re ecmudar tbe difcrca ce ictf daljr 
betaeen dK Bdtie and colonial tiaiber as tlus tas^ a 
tax wbicii podicjr advocates as a meaas of preacrriD^ 
i3m pel il a eal ascendency of the nation* IWe mmy 
be. vari<M» epinionftas to Ae expediency ef coiitia«a|f 
titt tax at ita peesent mte ; bat so king as it does not: 
eSeet an abaoinie pohiMtkni^ dieie shenid be netiew 
Poliry woaU seem to^ deflBsaid that tke proUbitioiv 
baasc^reTy as fisr as lekled to tin en^ik^Baenl. ef 
foreign shipping, should be complete. 

Hmk ii IS aol finr tiia preserratian el ewr naral 
snpmaitty that the addithmal dniy to wbadi Baltic 
ludber is lUUe oi^t to be endused. The ptogresa 
of papaialion^ and Ae helps by^ andm^r to labeair 


ia the United Kingdom, have produced a super- 
abundance of labourers. These must be provided 
for, because there is no disguising the fact that the 
poor have as good a right to the earth as the rich, 
and that if we do not enlarge the boundaries of 
employment, we shall subject ourselves to the domi-» 
nion of that anarchy which must arise in dme from a 
superabundance of able-bodied men. I therefore re- 
gard the tax on. foreign timber as an impost which 
indirectly enables us to employ our fellow-subjects^ 
while it ministers to our political consequence, deemed 
so vital, and which we do so much to uphold. It is 
indeed quite clear, that were we to keep all our super- 
abundant labourers in their respective parishes, which 
would be the result of not finding them work else- 
where, we should be obliged to increase the poor 
rates ; but it is more according to the maxims of a 
sound policy to find men in employment than to keep 
them in idleness. 

It is not half considered how much advantage the 
mother country derives from giving employment to 
the emigrant swarms of that superabundant jpopula- 
tion who yearly proceed to the colonies^ If it were, 


the fancy dould nev^r be entertained that we had a 
higher object in policy than the employment of our 
own people ; or, to use the homely Scottish proverb, 
than to give ^^ our ain fish-guts to our ain sea-maws ;" 
or, more philosophically, than to employ the inhabi- 
tants of the Old World in the improvement of the New, 
whose spacious regions and boundless forests seem to 
have been discovered at the very time when under the 
existing system the old sphere of man was becoming 
too contracted for the increase of the human race. 

It is not, therefore, only the colonial merchant who 
is concerned in preventing any change in the timber 
duties, nor the politician who sees in the dispropor- 
tion between the Baltic and colonial rates an indirect 
way of upholding our naval greatness. The landlords, 
to whom the immemorial customs of mankind have 
assigned the soil as property, are interested in rais- 
ing the duties on Baltic timber until the article be 
utterly excluded from our markets, because, while 
population and machinery advance, their possessions 
can only be rendered secure from the effects of a 
superabundance of labourers, by providing for the 
annual swarms in the colonial forests. 



It is not merely, however, from motives of hu- 
manity that our gentry should be influenced to pro- 
mote emigration, by encouraging industry in the 
American woods, A nearer interest — ^their own, 
should make them regard the question of the timber 
duties as one of no ordinary consequence. 

If they permit the Baltic timber to be brought 
into competition with the colonial, they will lessen 
that demand for labourers in the clearing of the 
forests, which induces so many thousands to emigrate 
yearly, and consequently cause an increase of paupers 
at home, and indirectly nourish those mischievous 
sentiments which endanger the very existence of the 
social compact itself. The House of Lords, as a 
body, all and individually, have a direct interest^ 
arising from the nature of their estates, to prevent 
any other alteration in the timber duties, than such 
as will have the effect of excluding all foreigners 
from bringing their timber into our markets. In the 
House of Commons we may expect less unanimity, 
for the members have various interests. Those con- 
cerned in the Baltic trade cannot fail to see that 
schemes of colonial advancement must to them be 


detrimental, and those who derive Aeir consequence 
from edifices, in the construction of which Baltic 
timber is preferred to colonial, may be expected to 
desire an equalization of duties. But the nation at 
large should discern, that with this question are con- 
nected considerations far more important than any 
which can be determined by a comparison of mercan- 
tile accounts, and will not leave the merchant, who 
is, in this instance, happily right, unaided to induce 
the Ministers not to consider the question with re- 
spect to price and quality, but with respect to the 
interest of the public. 

When I admitted the Baltic timber to be better 
than the colonial, it was not merely to enjforce the 
propriety of encouraging our own trade in despite of 
that circumstance, but to enable me to bring forward 
the argument which I will now state. I consented, 
certainly, to acknowledge the Baltic timber superior 
as an article; but I contend, that the world being 
composed of different nations, our statesmen are, in 
consequence, bound to cherish the interests of our 
own country more than those of every other, and that 
considerations of quality should not be reckoned as 


primary. I will now give a homely illustration of what 
I mean. 

In the days of my boyhood, I heard that there 
was among the intestines of black cattle something 
which the butchers called the " sweet coUop," which 
they never sold, but always consumed at home. It 
did not then occur to me that the butcher found it 
more conducive to his interests to sell his best meat, 
and to use the refuse himself. I concluded, in fact, 
that he reserved the tit-bits, and only disposed of the 
inferior pieces. In consequence, I reasoned myself 
into the belief that the sweet coUop was so called on 
account of its excellence, and was a dainty set apart 
for the special regalement of the butcher's own appe- 
tite. This was not the only subject in those days on 
which I did not reason correctly ; however, the result 
was, that I became very anxious to taste a sweet 
eoUop, and accordingly persuaded another boy to buy 
one, and to have it roasted, that we might eat and 
become like butchers, knowing the good and evil 
things of the slaughterhouse. Alas ! from that time 
I discovered that sweet collops were not reserved 
unsold on account of their excellence, but because, if 


the trade did not eat them, they mast be thrown to 
the dogs. 

About the same time I made another discovery no 
less important. I came to know that the bakers had 
a practice of surrounding the batches of their loaves 
of superfine flour with other works of their art, made 
of household stuff. These brown bread circttmvalla'- 
tions were called by the euphonious generic term of 
** swine-gnaw," but till the sweet collop inddent, I 
had no idea that swine-gnaw was preferred by the 
bakers for any other quality than its superior flavour ; 
indeed, how could I think otherwise, having been 
always particularly addicted to brown bread ? How- 
ever, I was taught to know that swine-gnaw was 
used by the bakers exactly for the same reason that 
the butchers revelled on sweet coUops. 

Now, 1 would request the country gentlemen to 
know that it is expedient to consume our own inferior 
timber. The genius of trade requires that we should 
do so, or retire from business ; for if we do not, we 
shall not be able to serve our customers so cheaply.. 
There is much virtue in obeying necessity, but really 
it may be doubted if there be such inferiority in the 


colonial timber, a8 the advocates for the lowering of 
the duties on the Baltic patriotically allege. 

Besides, in the present state of the world, it may 
be doubted if durability is quite so necessary as it was 
in days of yore, and that cheapness is almost an ade- 
quate equivalent. No housewife thinks now of 
laying in stocks of napery as in the days of our 
great-grandmothers, nor of regarding a hole in the 
tablecloth as ominous of a stinted dinner, ia conse- 
quence of the expense which must be incurred by a 
renewal of the set. In short, it begins to be apparent 
that part of the wise system of Providence is, that as 
naankind increase in numbers, employment will be 
provided for them, even at the expense of the venera- 
tion of man for durability. Certain it is, that we do 
not require things to last long, so much as to give 
peojfde something to do ; and, therefore, if a house 
finished with American timber will not endure so well 
as one finished with the same sort of wood from the 
Baltic, it is not to be complained of, inasmuch as the 
fragility is contributory to the workings of nature. 

I hope that all those who pay poor-rates will attend 
to the timber question, and reflect on the consequen- 


ces which must ensue to themselveSy if the multitudes 
now engaged in making the bettemunit of America 
be thrown upon the parochial assessment. I ea- 
treat them to think how humanity and property 
would be affected, were all the saUon in the shipjnng 
in the timber trade cast adrift, as they would be if the 
flipping were thrown idle ; and what would become 
of all the numerous artisans to whom at present these 
fleets give employment — all the countless carpenters 
and bricklayers who would necessarily become pau- 
pers, were the merchants and shipowners rendered 
unable to employ them ? Of the consequent deprecia* 
tion of rents that would ensue by the spread of po- 
yerty — of the decay in the demand for luxuries that 
must follow the diminution of rents — of the effects on 
the productions of refined manufactures, and parti- 
cularly to the professors of the fine arts — of the mere 
financial impossibility to uphold those victorious fleets 
^ad armies which constitute our national streng^ 
and so much of our national greatness ; — ^in &ct, the 
universal dry-rot which would infect the kingdom. 
It can scarcely be estimated what the consequences 
would be, were the British legislators so lost to all 
British feeling as to r^;ard the timber question in the 


light in which it may be contemplated by the Econo^ 
mists, even though the merchants had not demon* 
stiated its amazing direct value. It is as certain as 
that every member of the innumerable millions at 
present. on the face of the earth must die, that the 
doom of England shall one day be consummated; 
but what do we think of the man that lifts the assas* 
sin's knife against another ? And yet worse than the 
worst of his deeds would be the sudden abrogation 
of any system for which society was not prepared. 
While France and England are on the globe together, 
the timber trade inyolves considerations that ought to 
render the discussion of it, with a view of giving a 
preference to our intercourse with the Baltic, a high 
crime and misdemeanour. 

But the effects to which I have adverted as conse- 
quences that would ensue were the colonial timber 
trade ruined, as it would be by the proposed diminu* 
tion of the duties on Baltic timber, is not the point 
of view in which it ought to be considered by the 
gentlemen of England. An abrupt abolition, a ham-r 
stringing, would be equally pernicious. It is there- 
fore not so much by the detrimental consequences of 
the blight at home that it claims earnest attention, as 


by its particular evil influence on the statistics of the 
kingdom. The timber trade has an interest peculiar 
to itself, to which no other trade has any thing simi- 
lar. I allude to emigration, and the industry of the 
thousands attracted by the prospect of employment 
abroad in the forests of the colonies, — ^withdrawn 
from being paupers in England, and removed from 
being an afflicting burden on the poor-rates, and on 
the charity of Christians. This is the point which 
touches property in all its various modifications, par- 
ticularly in this part of the United Kingdom, and 
which renders it no less than the duty of the English 
people of all descriptions to raise their voices, and to 
kindle inextinguishable animosity against those states- 
men who are weak or wicked enough to dare even to 
think, as society exists, that the relief which comes 
from the colonial timber trade may be abridged not 
only to the state itself, but to every man of any pro- 
perty within it, and, above all, to those unfortunate 
individuals, thousands on thousands, who have but the 
workhouse and beggary before them, or the dreadful 
alternative of revolutionary crime. 

London, May 14, 1834. 

[ 82 ] 


SoMETiMBS the winged fancy flies 
Beyond the scope of furthest stars, 

Where fading light in darkness dies, 
And uncreated chaos wars. 

Amidst the turbulence sublime, 
Sound has no place — ^the elements 

Roll silent as the mists of time, 
Or the dread bosom's dark intents. 

There storms career with spectral might 
Along creation's lonely shore ; 

Life, in 'fore death, sleeps as the light 
Lay in the cold black gloom of yore. 

Dim dreams relate a mystic tale. 
That, &r unknown beyond the past. 


Where poets' thoughts in fimcy fidl, 
Hiere is a void abysm vast. 

Twins of eternity, their sire 

Omnipotence, there Nig^t and Death, 
Ere heaven could bless, or hell aspire, 

Or chaos worlds to time bequeath, 

Held bifold rule ; one subject old. 
Dumb Silence, only own*d their sway, 

And in their realm a seraph bold 
On quests forbidden lost his way. 

Still on and on, with feet and wings. 
As speeds the ostrich in the wild, — 

Behind the searcher distance flings. 
By hope and fear alike begmled. 

But never shall he reach a bourne. 

Till Providence forgets to tend. 
Or hurrying round in deem'd return. 

He find the endless circle end. 

•[ 84 ] 



I AM afraid it will be thought by many that, in 
being ofopijiion that the capital of the United King- 
dom is superabundant, I am only affecting to be para- 
doxical ; but I was never less so in my life, and will 
briefly ^tate the reasons which have led to the con- 
clusion, notwithstanding the admitted prevalence of 
national distress. On the subject of population, I 
had inferred, theoretically, before the Parliamentary 
enquiries of what should be called Sir Robert Wil- 
mot Horton's Committee, that the United Kingdom 
contained, under existing circumstances, more men 
that lived by. labour than there was work for them to 
do. I am no less persuaded of the existence of a su- 
perabundance of capital, though the correctness of 
the notion may not be so susceptible of proof; but if 
it be the case that there is this superabundance, it 
will not be difficult to show that any colonial plan 
cannot contain a sufficient antidote for the plethora : 
we should look for the remedy in the developement 


of the system of things. Before, however, venturing 
to offer any suggestion on the subject, I should give 
some of the principal facts from which I deduce an 
inference, so contrary to my own condition, and that 
of myriads around me. 

By capital, I do not mean the existence of canals, 
or of shipping, or of machinery, or of any thing from 
which income is derived — that is capital invested — 
but I mean money in bullion, or in representative 
documents, such as bills or notes, &c. ; and my 

First ground of persuasion is in the balances lying 
without interest at bankers', and in the low rate of 
interest generally. 

Second, The avidity with which pecuniary specu- 
lations are supported. They show at once a pleni- 
tude of capital, and difficulty in finding the means of 
employing it profitably. 

. Third, The high price of old articles of luxury, on 
which no labour is now expended. 

Fourth, The demand for rare productions of nature 
on which compariatively little labour is expended. 

These items are stated merely to show what is 
meant by the superabundance of capital, for I do not 
consider that in circulation which gives employment 


to men, as of the superabundance. In addition to 
these, a vast proportion of the national expenditure 
proves the existence of the fact for which I contend, 
particularly all that respects the army and navy, in 
which so many individuals are kept unproductive, and 
so many vehicles of expenditure are maintained at the 
public expense. 

The conmiunity of this country seems conscious of 
the state of things ; and I regard as an effect of this 
undivulged conviction, the rise in late years of the 
various schemes for public improvement, but above 
all, the establishment of annuities. 

The natural tendency of all shows that the era is 
not far distant when Government must interfere, and 
devise some plan which shall have the effect of breaks- 
ing the masses of capital into small pieces-— of ac- 
complishing thereby its better distribution, and of 
absorbing its unrestrained growth of surplus ; in short, 
to produce an effect in economics, that shall be equi- 
valent to the decay and consumption which continually 
take place in nature. But the topic is multi£mous, 
and I cannot afford time to offer the illustrations and 
disquisition which its importance deserves, and per- 
haps requires* 

[ 87 3 



I KNOW the good fellow, 
A rogue though he be ; 

His game is the shuttlecock, 
Feather'd with glee. 

With jibes and with jokes, 
With banter and story, 

And merry new songs. 
The knave's in his glory. 

But trust not the rascal, — 
The hjrpocrite shun ; 

He means but to sadden. 
When blithest with fun. 

And ask in the morning, 
(The dog let us throttle,) 

How goes it, old Headach ? 
His name it is Bottle. 

[ 88 ] 



I NEVER Gould understand the Bullion question, 
especially as it appears to the bullionists, and yet 
many clear-headed and able men are among them. 
But, with a very earnest desire to be right, the more 
I think of it I am only the more convinced that they 
are mystified. It is indeed a subject, as I under- 
stand it, so plain and simple, that I cannot conceive 
how so much ado is made about nothing. 

Money, according to my conception, is an article 
which represents the value of things. 

It may consist of metal as valuable as the denomi- 
nation it bears, but the value of the substance of 
which it is formed is totally distinct from that which 
it represents.^ The bullionists, I imagine, do not 
make this distinction. They confound the intrinsic 
and representative values together ; and they call that 

1 Dr Lang, in his able Presbyterian work on Australia, speaks 
of notes there being the representatives of property. 


deplreciation which arises in a metallic currency^ from 
a coiruption of the material of Which it is made. Or, 

It may consist of paper, and be of no value in it- 
self. The depreciation then depends on the credit of 
the issuer. 

In the late war, when the metals of which money 
was made were in request, they rose in value ; the de- 
mand raised their price, in the common way, and from 
the same cause that other commodities, such as com. 
or sugar, fluctuate in the market* The bullionists, 
however, by not considering that the rise and fall in 
the price of the metals have nothing to do with the 
representative character of the tokens in circulation, 
fell into an error which affected both the judgment 
and interests of the community. 

To this mistake I ascribe that blunder with respect 
to banking, by which it is popularly imagined that the 
bank notes of every bank should be payable in bullion. 
The unattainable nature of this should, upon reflec- 
tion^ extinguish the notion. Men have only to think 
of the amount of all bank notes in circulation, to be 
convinced of the improbability of drawing into the cof^ 



fers of the different banks a quantity of coin or bullion 
equal to that amount. 

Notes will, m representative value, always exceed 
die amount of bullion in the banks ; and therefore to 
suppose that they should be convertible into what 
may be called intrinsic money, is neither more nor less 
than to suppose an absurdity practicable. 

But besides the erroneous supposition that notes 
are the representatives of coined money, we know 
that, practically, the public neither believe so, nor 
act as if they did. They only think that the pru- 
dence of bankers will induce them to keep in their 
coffers a sum in coin and buUion, that may be suffi- 
cient to meet any probable exigency. 

The credit given to their notes is entirely owing to 
the estimate made of their other assets ; in &ct, by 
considering their notes not issued against the treasure 
in their coffers, but as against their whole property* 

I wonder how it has happened that the bullionists 
have not insisted that checks on bankers should be 
as valuable as the amount which they represent, for 
I cannot conceiye in what respect checks differ from 


bank-notes. They are both vehicles of oonyenience, 
and we only take them in payment, because we be- 
lieye their issuers are good for more Aan the amount 
they represent. I remember, at the trial of the late 
Lord Melville, Mr Whitbread asked Mr Mark 
Sprott if he would take a check on the Bank of Eng- 
land ? ^^ It would depend," replied the pawkie sen- 
vener, <^ vera much on wha was the drawer ;** — ^there- 
by showing the accuracy and deamess of his ideas 
with respect to representative money. 

The bullionists fall into another iQistake, by sup- 
posmg that paper, or representative money, should 
be always convertible into coin or intrinsic money. 
They forget the existing state of our society, and 
that we have vast masses of various property which 
have a marketable valuation. Surely that property 
is as susceptible of being transferable by representar 
tion as gold or silver; and where lies the necessity of 
employing intrinsic money in effecting a transfer from 
one proprietor to another ? The bit of parchment on 
which a mortgage is engrossed, in my opinion, is 
a money-representative, — money issued conditionally 
i^ainst a specific estate. 


But although it does seem to me that representa^- 
tion is the very element and essence of money, it does 
not follow that I contend it should therefore be paper ; 
on the contrary, the tear and wear of circulation 
require a more durable material for small sums ; but 
the amount which should be of such a material is a 
question of expediency. At the same time, I cannot 
see the utility of allowing the contraction or expan- 
sion of issues to be at the will and pleasure of indi- 
viduals. I think the well-being of society depends 
in a great measure on having always a fixed amount 
in existence, whether in circulation, or dormant with 
the bankers ; and I conceive it is to attain something 
of this sort that all our blind gropings are directed, 
which makes me think that bankers should, upon a 
show of means, take out a license, and pay the state 
for it, to entitle them to issue a specified amount of 

Besides the primary error into which I conceive 
the bullionists have fallen, all the money controver- 
sialists, on both sides of the question, have omitted to 
notice that the increase of our population since the 
war, requires a corresponding increase of the circula- 


ting medium, or what is the same thing, a Macadami- 
zing of the masses into which wealth has coagulated 
subsequent to that period. For, although the quan- 
tity of intrinsic money has probably not increased, 
yet the quantity of property susceptible of monetary 
representation has prodigiously increased; and the 
controversy between those who contend for gold and 
those who stand for paper, might be advantageously 
terminated, were the representative character of 
money properly considered, and the ingenuity so 
thriftlessly expended on theories, practically applied 
to discover how the accumulated masses of property 
in private hands can be best broken up to suit the 
wants and pursuits of an increasing, industrious, and 
improving people. 

Note — I wondef why it is that chartered banks are so much 
preferred to private establishments of the same kind? Pri- 
vate banks are responsible for all the property of the partners, 
but chartered banks only for their subscribed capital. For ex- 
ample, what man who knew anything of the subject would deem 
the Bank of England, as it is, comparable in security to many 
private banking-houses that might be named? 

[ 94 ] 



Thb lady that I loved in youth. 

Was surely never you : 
Her cheeks were as the rose in June, 

Her eyes as morning dew. 

Soft music wing'd her words with smiles, 

Delicious to the heart ; 
The air grew warm when she was nigh, 

But fortune bade us part. 

Your locks are of the hoary grey. 

Hers were the golden hue : 
The lady that in youth I lov'd. 

Could never, dame, be you. 

Oh I she was as the lily's sheen. 
When flowers are in their best ; 

The beads that fondled with her neck, 
I deem'd were surely blest. 


The gems that starred her heavenly brow 

Then sparkled with delight ; 
But eild on thine has furrows trench'd, 

And cares and woes affiight. 

Full many a blast of adverse wind, 

For her I bravely bore — 
A wand'rer in a joyless clime, 

I dreamt she was no more. 

Thy sigh denotes a matron's wish. 

That wish a mother's prayer — 
A widow's tear is on thy cheek, 

I live — ^the tear is there. 

Why, lady, dost thou claim my aid ? 

Thou hast no claim on me. 
For thou art old — my Mary false ! 

Ye gods, could never be ! 

But, ah ! that look lives in a heart 

Unchangeable and true ; 
Take all — ^the maid in youth I loved 

Was, Mary, only you ! 

Note.— The thought in this litde ballad was suggested by an 
actual occurrence. I acknowledge myself incapable of making 
8a<^ fine inventions as are sometimes seen in the realities of life. 

[ 96 ] 


Tontines are, in finance, what the tides of the 
ocean are in mechanics — a vast power which, though 
known, is seldom applied, and when applied, but in 
driblets. It is not easy to account for this, as the 
principle of reversionary payments is well under- 
stood, and carried to a great extent in practice by 
the life insurance oflSces. Nobody of any information 
now thinks either of hoarding with themselves or in 
banks. They insure their lives, and in the shape of 
their annual payments of the premium, accumulate 
those savings which, in a former age, constituted 
their ready money, and what was put out to usury. 

In national aflfairs, the Tontine principle is of the 
simplest application, and there is no explaining how 
it has happened to be so much neglected by Chan- 
cellors of the Exchequer and other financiers. Per- 
haps the custom of only yearly considering the Budget 
is the cause ; for the Tontine principle in its applica- 
tion cannot be rendered effective in operation, as the 
finances of the state are at present managed. This 


k not said with the slightest intention of impl]ring 
that the ezistii^ system is not wdl managed ; for, in 
my opinion, however inadequate I may be to form 
a right judgment on the subject, I do think that no 
pecuniary concerns are better managed, according to 
usage, than the revenues of the United Kingdom. I 
only think that the Tontine principle might be intro- 
duced into them with great beneficial effect. Every 
thing, I conceive, is so well ordered, and, moreover, 
has so grown into a habit, that I would not attempt to 
disturb it. I would only add something new, ad- 
ditional to that which is already so excellent. 

Many years ago, full two-and-twenty, when there 
was, during the most expensive war that ever raged, 
much foolish talk about building a Palace, I was led 
to consider how the means might be obtained; and 
this drew me on to reflect on the principle of raising 
money by way of Tontine. It seemed to me that in 
this way a large sum might be obtained by the state, 
and that the principle was well calculated to be ren- 
dered available by governments. It is needless to 
show the process of reasoning by which I arrived at 
this conclusion, but the result was the formation of a 



scheme, to pioyide in the easiest manner, a fund ade- 
quate to build a new Palace. I have since reduced 
the same plan with a view of being applied to the 
National Gallery ; and as the clearest way of submit- 
tbg it to consideration, I will describe it in the 
abstract here. 

Supposing the government require a large sum of 
money for public works, I propose that a certain 
annual amount shall be provided from the revenue of 
the state, for a term of years. This amount I would 
hold responsible for the payment of the interest (less 
than the customary interest) of a capital to be raised 
by Tontine, and that at the expiry of a term of 
years, the holders of shares in the Tontine should at 
that period be paid a given sum, and the Tontine 
thenceforth cease. 

In case, however, that this generality is too vague 
for men not accustomed to abstract reasoning, I will 
state the notion in a more special form. For example — 

The Government is in want of L.500,000 for a 
particular object, the interest on which may be taken 
at the legal rate of five per cent, or in other words, 
L.25,000. I would propose that the revenue shoirid 


be made responsible for L. 12,500, which is only at 
the rate of 2^ per cent; and that the L. 500,000 
should be raised against this in shares of a small de- 
nomination each, say Lt20 or L,25, or whatever 
may be deemed most expedient. If at L.25, the 
shares would in number be 20,000, and in the first 
year they would have L.12,500 to divide among 
them. They would commence with that rate and 
with 20,000 participators. 

It is not probable, however, that although there 
were 20,000 shares, there would be so many partici- 
pators, but it is for perspicuity assumed that there 
would be. 

Supposing, then, the term of years should be fixed 
at thirty. I do not mean that thirty should be the 
fixed period, but only for illustration. I would pro- 
pose that at the expiry of this term the surviving 
shareholders of the Tontine should receive from the 
state, to divide among them, L. 100,000, and that 
then the Tontine should cease. 

By this means Government would raise at once 
L.500,000, for which it would only pay 2i per cent 
interest, and, instead of paying back the capital. 

100 tOKTlN£8. 

should only pay tlie 6ftk part of it^ namely, the 
L.100,000 before spoken of. 

To those not acquainted with the principle of the 
author^ it may be necessary to explain, that he pro- 
poses to raise on a given number of lives a certain sum 
of money, and to divide among them annually a specifi- 
ed amount. Thus, in the scheme I in like manner 
propose, the number of participator or devisers would 
be 20,000, and the amount would be L. 12,500 at 
the beginning, but at the end of ten years the advan- 
tage would be manifest and felt. By death suppose 
the devisers reduced one-fourth, then, instead of sha- 
ring at the rate of 12s. 6d. per share, the participators 
would receive 158. 8d. ; and if we carry this on, we 
shall see how the income will accumulate by deaths, 
insomuch that at the end of the thirty years, suppo- 
sing the survivors reduced to 1250, they will receive 
as income L.IO from their L.25 sunk, and divide 
among them L.100,000, or take L.80 each. 

My notion is not, however, to restrict this mode 
of finance to one transaction. I would make it a 
permanent part in the finance system of the state — 
a r^ular department, in which it should be the 


business to be constantly acting on the Tontine 

The minor object of obtaining money to build the 
National Gallery had another special consideration 
in view. It seemed to me not expedient t^ the 
whole kingdom should be taxed for that Qf my strictly 
metropolitan undertaking, and therefcvey that the 
money shwld be got from the monied interest ; and 
that the best aad liairest way of applying to th^m was 
by the way of Tontine. 

In proposing this mode of raising money for the 
public service, I hope it is sufficiently clear that I do 
not propose a specific plan, so much as I have attempt- 
ed to elucidate a principle. I am well aware that in 
every such undeftaking the spirit of the time muft 
be consulted, ajid deference paid to national circum- 
stances. I only presume to show, that a mode of 
raising money for the public may be resort^ to, which 
will have the effect of abridging taxation. It is, how- 
ever, for those who have not to make their livelihood 
by their pen to examine the subject* For if the 
thought be worth any thing, it is worth a great deal 
to the public, but to the «^uthor not much- 

[ 102 ] 


Ah me I in life what fond enchantments lure I 
The laughing child on sunny threshold playing. 

How little deems it that within the door 
A stalwart demon stoops, for ever braying 

In Fate's dread mortar, ghastly and obscure, 

The drugs of that fell draught which mortals must 
endure t 

Thus as I slumber'd on the starry sward, 

(Starr'd by the silvery daisies beaming bright,) 

A gentle fay entranced Fancy heard 
Her tale of olden minstrelsy recite : 

In form a bee, but vocal as a bird 

On blossom or on bough, the mystic sprite appeared. 

Her song began, as fairies love to sing, 
With deft moralities of quaint conceit. 

As rural maids in vernal garlands hing 
The fluttering butterflies tied by the feet, 


Or sprinkle jewels from the glanciiig spring, 
And o'er the flowery wreath fiemtastic beauty fling. 

The lay and legend, which she sweetly sung. 

Was of a castle turreted and hoar. 
That from a capeland &r its shadow flung, 

Sadd'ning the waves that fondled on the shore, — 
What time at eve the curfew bell was rung. 
And down the banner'd mast the listless blazon hung. 

** A pile," she sang, ^^ upon the mountain's brow. 
Shines like a diadem, and many an age 

Hath seen the pinnacles' refulgent glow, 
And round the ramparts baffled ruin rage ; 

For spells of power forbid its overthrow, 

A griffin guards the gate, and warriors bend the bow. 

" It is yclept the Tower of Destiny, 
And sad within the dungeon-keep there dwells ' 

A hapless wight enthrall'd by Mystery, 
A dark enchanter, as tradition tells. 

Who in that castle, brewing sorcery. 

Beguiles the guests that drink the drugged fidlacy. 


*' The capthre dmll that maketh there his moaB, 
Is knqwn^ I ween, within the world of time 

As Human Life, a frail and fetter'd one. 
With Enor lodged, and manaeled to Cmne ; 

Yet not in darkness does he ever groan, — 

Delusions glaik his walls, and shining shapes are 

<^ Sometimes he pines a cieature most Ibrlom, 
Toss'd by disease, his thoughts dishevell'd quite. 

Restless he wearies for the dawn of mom 
To thin the darkness of the pitchy night ; 

And oft his bosom's lord with care is torn. 

When from the u|rfand green he hears the hmiter's 

<< But oft ecstatic with the sparkling draught 
That Hope presents in her bewitching glass, 

He hunts the Iris (^ fantastic thought, 
And flying forward, sees not as they pass. 

That fixed things are but by Fancy brought, — 

Still motionless they stand, yet seem with motion 


^< And when at last the fumes have pass'd away. 

And the delirium of the cup is gone. 
Wearied and wan he eyes the parting iay» 

And on the earth dejected lays him down, 
Or gazing round, beh^ds the twilight gray 
But li^ts the self-same cell where he b^^ the 

^^ "Us eyer thus, in anguish or in toil. 
The phantom man his earthly transit drees ; 

Deceived at times by changeful Fortune's smile. 
The unsubstantial glaiks of life he sees. 

But the blight visions soon his grasp beguile, 

And with a secret sigh he dofb the mortal coil/' 

[ 106 ] 


There is, and appears always to have been, an 
inclination in mankind for a Universal Government. 
The wars of nations, when not contentions for this 
great prize, have generally strengthened the desire of 
seeing it obtained. The whole record of history 
relative to events previous to the Roman conquests^ 
is an enumeration of attempts to attain this grand 
object ; and defaced as the memorials are, each suc- 
cessive attempt appears to have been more rationally 
projected than the preceding, affording as it were, an 
index to discover the progress of political improve- 
ment in the world. 

But although this tendency in human affairs is indis- 
putable, it is yet difficult to account for the general 
apprehension which prevails, with respect to the evil 
consequences of a universal government, for it seems 
almost self-evident that it would be more for the ad- 
vantage of mankind, if the world were engrossed into 
one government than as it stands at present. 


A universal monarchy would set aside the deplora* 
ble incitements to war; the desire of conquest would 
be extinguished) the jealousy of national interest 
would cease, national distinctions would be removed, 
and conmierce become as free as its spirits ; the arts 
and sciences, no longer suspended by political calami- 
ties, would pass onward towards perfection, in unin- 
terrupted progression. 

But how, it may be ask^, could ^^the whole 
earth," formed into one kingdom, be governed ? By 
the representative system, and by responsible local 
governors. No essential province would be much 
&rther from the central government than the British 
Empire in India is from England ; and yet it cannot 
be said that the influence of the British legislature 
over the Governors of India might not be augment- 
ed, if it be not already sufficient. If Great Britain 
be capable of exercising over her Indian territories, 
amidst all her other various cares, an energetic sway, 
surely there could be no difficulty, as far as distance 
might be supposed to operate, to prevent the same 
thing from being done under the regulations of a 
supreme universal government. The princes and 


i^atesmen of particular couBtrie^ are the only oatural 
enemies of a uuiyersal govemioieiit. 

Bat the causes which have impeded the establish^ 
ment of a universal government have, perhaps, beea 
rather moral than politicalp The $t^t^ 'of society 
previous to the Babylonian Empire, is almost un- 
known, even of the means and modes of Kehucbad- 
nezzar's government, only the report of au indistinct 
traditionary rumour has reached us ; and so imperfect 
and obscure also are the accounts we have received 
of the subsequent Persian monarchy, that they fur- 
nish better materials for theoretical than for practical 
reasoning. We are suflSciently certain, however, that 
the sack ajod subjugation of kingdoms in those remote 
ages were seldom palliated by the pretexts of injured 
honour or violated justice ; and that to be in posses- 
sion of instruments adapted to ambitious purposes, 
was then a reasonable enough cause of war. 

The career of Alexander the Great was nobly 
directed to the civilisation and union of mankind; 
but when we reflect how preposterous was the mode 
of accomplishment which he pursued, though assisted 
in council by one of the most intelligent men that 


the world has yet produced, we are justified in al- 
]eg;ing that political science must have been still 
extremely crude in his time. 

After the fall of Alexander's empire the Roman 
Republic rises eminent, and in her policy we discern 
more correct notions of government. We are at 
a loss which most to admire, the wisdom or the 
majesty of Rome, when private worth was the pass- 
port to public honour, and the institutions of the 
state furnished motives to the virtue of individuals. 
The moral grandeur of the Roman story has not been 
exceeded by the achievements of the Roman power. 
Nor previous to the period of her degeneracy into 
imperial despotism had any system appeared so inte* 
resting to the best aims and imaginations of mankind 
as that excellent policy by which a participation in 
her privileges and glory operated as allurements to 
submission on the subjects of the different states which 
she wished to subdue. 

The degraded condition in which the Roman world 
found itself placed by the emperors and their minis- 
ters, compared with the remembrance of the vene- 
rable times of the republic, served to promote the im- 
provement of human opinions, and most effectually 


too, when the degradation appeared most complete. 
As the cords were tightened the sense of the bondage 
was sharpened ; and had it not been for those bar- 
barians whom Providence seems to have sent on the 
civilized countries to prepare the way for the dis- 
semination of motives to virtue of a more efficient 
influence than the approbation of mankind, or the 
recompense of an honourable name, the struggles of 
the people to rescue their rights would in time have 
overturned the throne of the Caesars. 

Although the Roman empire was certainly de- 
stroyed by the arms of the Northern nations, it should 
be recollected that a period of three hundred years 
was occupied in the work ; and that when the inroads 
of the barbarous hordes are mentioned, a considerable 
error is sometimes committed, in imagining them to 
have all happened in the same epoch, and their result 
in one age. The subversion of Rome was as regu- 
lar as her elevation ; the pyramid, sapped by the decay 
of its foundations, became disturbed and rent, stone 
after stone from the apex to the base, was succes- 
sively cast down, and gradually appropriated to the 
construction of other edifices. Unless we keep this 
fact distinctly in remembrance, and divest our im«* 


ginations of such poetic hyperbole, as that innume- 
rable swanns issuing like a deluge from ^* the frozen 
limbs" of the North, hurling into vreck every in- 
stitution, and filling the whole South with a new race, 
we shall not be able to follow, with any degree of 
accuracy, the progress of improvement in the politi- 
cal sentiments of mankind. 

The introduction of Christianity happened at a 
period when the world was peculiarly prepared for the 
reception of new religious dogmas. The human 
mind had attained a degree of improvement that en- 
abled it to contemn the objects of its former adora^ 
tion, though still so imperfectly enlightened as to be 
incapable of discriminating religion from her shadow, 
superstition. Accordingly, we find that the Christian 
doctrines were soon so mixed and confounded with 
the forms and notions of paganism, that instead of pro- 
moting the great purpose of their promulgation, they 
formed the cause and origin of that craft and tyranny 
by which the papacy, the empire of- Christendom, was 
established. At the same time, however, the natural 
tendency of Christianity continued regularly to ope- 
rate, and was eflfecting that change on political orders 
and institutions, of which the present crisis is a re- 


markabk stage, and which must ultimately produce 
a mode of government, more advantageous to human 
nature, and the promotion of virtue. Birth has al* 
ready ceased to be regarded as an essential qualifica- 
tion for managing national affairs, and rank as a pri- 
vilege for the indulgence of profligacy. Nor is ability, 
when unaccompanied with integrity, capable of influ- 
encing mankind to the same extent, even in this age, 
which it did in former times. The people have 
ceased to be the vassals of the great, and statesmen 
have become the agenta of the people. The people 
no longer accommodate themselves to their rulers, 
but the rulers endeavour to gratify the people. The 
public welfare, not the pleasure of the sovereign, has 
become the ostensible allegation of all the royal edicts 
of Europe ; even the continental armies consider them- 
selves more as the weapons of their respective nations 
than as the tools of their kings. Napoleon has been 
compared to Charlemagne, but a slight glance at the 
character of the latter will be sufficient to convince us 
that all the splendid incidents of his reign would not 
have made him endurable to the present age, and will, 
at the same time, illustrate the subsequent advances 
of moral improvement in Europe. 

[ "3 ] 


Be my asylum in some nameless wild, 

Amidst the dread, the vast, the uneonfined ; 
Where Nature sits enthroned on mountains piled, 

And awes with wordless eloquenee the mind : 
There let me oft, to thee or Ood resign'd, 

Thrill with the mystery of her mighty spell, — 
Behold the lightning's flash consume the wind, * 

And hear the welkin's universal bell, 
Tolling the thunder peal, that deep and dreadful knell. 

Oh ! pious solitude, that loves to muse 

On q>acious upland, or in silvan glen, 
Be thou with me, when my rapt spirit views 

The griefs, the cares, the strifes, the toils of men. 
May Echo, &r unseen by mortal ken, 

That solemn clerk, repeat my boding sigh ; 
And hynming £ei11s, and forest anthons, then — 

The psalms of nature — ^teadi me how to die, 
For, ah I they can but hope that moil beneath the sky. 


[ "4 ] 



Although Irvine was my birthplace, and Green-* 
ock the town of my adoption, yet I have ever regarded 
my obligations to Glasgow as paramount to those 
due to every other place. 

My Autobiography will enable the courteous reader 
to determine what I owe to Irvine, for I am myself 
not very sure that I have any great reason to be thank- 
ful for having been bom at all ; and as for Greenock, 
unless it can be explained why an uncaptivating com- 
panion is endured, I know not why its image has 
taken possession of so cosy a nook in my affections ; 
for although I do regard with a kind of fraternal 
attachment the companions of my youth, I am as 
ignorant of the cause, as the celebrated Tom Brown 
was of his dislike to Dr Fell. Possibly it may be 
owing to my indelible local memory; I cannot bear to 
see new faces around me, and the interest I take in 

A LEGACY. 1 15 

former scenes may come from the same weakness; 
but if my firiends in the mag^tracy of Greenock were 
sympathetic entities, they would direct their treasurer 
to repay me for the boat-hire it cost me, while at 
Quebec, for going across the St Lawrence by myself, 
merely to see a fine view from below Point Levi9 
which I thought marvellously like that from the cus- 
tom-house quay of Greenock. 

To Glasgow my obligations arise from something 
more substantial. From that city my father derived 
every thing; my hopes in early life drew nourish- 
ment from the same quarter, and, in riper years, 
whatever I can trace of favour and imaUoyed benefit, 
is due to Glasgow above all spots on the earth ; — but 
I am growing serious — and there is a pleasure in 
conferring favours, especially such as leaving legacies, 
naturally of a cheerful kind, that makes me hasten 
to the main business of this paper. 

In the year '88 or '89, when a boy, holding my 
father by the finger, I was standing on the original 
west quay of Greenock, while he was speaking with 

Mr S ^t, the shipbuilder and banker, respecting 

some extension into the river of his building-yard. In 


doing so Mr S happened to make use of the ex- 
pression, that in ^^ about a dozen years" he expected 
to complete his improvements. Should he happen to 
see this, he will possibly remember the circumstance. 
It took place before he laid down the keel of the ship 
which my father commanded till he left the sea. 

The expression of ^^ a dozen years" seemed so illip- 
mitable, that it caught my attention, and I became 
an interested listener. From that day my projecting 
genius began to germinate. Subsequently, as I ap- 
proached the years of discretion, which, by the by, I 
have some reason to think I have not yet quite at- 
tained, though I am fifty-five years old, I was led by 
a humorous observation of the same gentleman to 
the formation of the plan which I am now about to 

A device was hatched in the brain of some Port- 
Glasgow Solomon, to make a wet*dock there, and a 
canal from that unfortunate town to the maternal 
dty. The apprehension of this scheme had a most 
disastrous influence on the intellects of certain old 
women of Greenock, and something being at the 
same time in the wind about an illumination, Mr S 

A LEOACY. 117 

in my healings proposed to make a candle for it as big 
as a steej^,^ and to melt the grease for the candle 
in the Port*61asgow wet<<lock. This ludicrous no- 
tion somehow had the effect of causing me to think 
of the practicability of improving the navigation of 
the Clyde, and the process of my reflections led to 
the conclusion that aU running streams might, by 
dampiing, be converted into canals ; a specific plan 
for making the Clyde more navigable, however, did 
not then occur to me. 

When I afterwards came to London I was much 
in company with engineers, the first of the age ; but, 
without the slightest disparagement to their abilities, 
I do not hesitate to say, that their talent consbted 
more in their knowledge of the science of construc- 
tion, than of any superiority in the discernment of 
local capabilities; my interest in the subject was, 
however, thus kept up and improved. 

Being afterwards in bad health, I was subsequently 
resident at Clifton, and having nothing else to do, I 
amused myself in supervising, whenever the weather 

* The crooked affair at Port-Glasgow was not then built. 

118 A LEGACY. 

permitted, the excavations of the Avon at Bristol. 
Afterwards I went into Asia Minor, and in visiting 
the ruins of Ephesus, I got additional li^ht, by look* 
ing at the ancient embankments of the river near 
the site of that city. 

It seemed to me that the bed of the river, which 
in some places was said to be very deep, was higher 
than the plain, and it had the effect of making me 
attentive to the channels of rivers. 

When I came home, I went one day into the country 
to see the pictures of a gentleman, and among them 
was a view of the Pp, hanging in the diningroom. 
As he invited loe to stay dinner, the paintings around 
suggested topics of conversation, and I was struck 
with an incidental observation of his, relative to the 
river in the picture being in some places higher in its 
course than the plain. ^ I do not know if he had 
any particular theory on the subject, but his obser- 
vation interested me. 

Subsequently I had occasion to walk up the banks 

* 19th June, 1834. A friend, who has been at the Po, cor- 
roborated, the other day, on my reading this paper, the elevation 
of that river as I saw it in the picture. 


A LEGACY. 119 

of the Thames, near the Red-House above Lambeth, 
when my attention was awakened by observing that 
the banks were similarly constructed to those of the 
river of Ephesus, and of the Italian river. This led 
to more investigation, and I ascertained that the en- 
closure of the Thames was artificial, and that as late 
as the time of Henry VIII. some part had been 
executed. I thus became convinced that the Clyde 
might be embanked as well as the Thames, or any of 
the others. Before I proceed to the developement 
of my plan, I should observe that I am aware of the 
plans and works for the deepening of the Clyde. Mine 
is quite the reverse, and is at once cheaper and easier 
of accomplishment ; inasmuch as the deepening is a 
slow work of time, whereas I propose to raise the 
channel of the stream. 

My idea is, that somewhere about Bowling Bay, 
the river may be dammed up, so as to make all the 
stream, to the bridges, a wet-dock, accessible to the 
Great Canal, and navigable by the Inchenen river to 
Pfidsley. I would sink a sufficient number of sugar 
hogsheads, filled with stones, in the line of the dam, 
as a skeleton to be clothed with stones and gravel, 

120 A LEGACY. 

and make in the dam two locks, one for the outward, 
and the other for the inward trade. But it is in the 
construction of this dam that my ingenuity would be 
chiefly exerted ; for although I consider the employ- 
ment of dredgers to keep the dam constantly of one 
depth necessary, I would so build the weir, that it 
should have a number of sluices, to open and shut at 
pleasure, along the bottom, level with the bottom of the 
river — considering that by this contrivance I would 
produce a strong under-current from the water of the 
river, to carry off the mud, and that a side-cut could 
be made to carry off the surplus water whenever the 
dam was full, and the sluices insufficient to prevent 

For the labourers requisite, I would, in addition to 
the common sort of labourers, request the major part 
of the troops commonly quartered in Glasgow, to be 
removed in the summer to Kilpatrick, and give the 
men, in addition to their pay, some allowance, that, 
would raise their wages, when they chose to work on 
the embankment, equal to the rate paid to other 
labourers. The soldiers for this would, I am sure, 
all work ; and the work might be done in a summer. 

A L£GACV« I2l 

The money requisite, I would propose to raise, not 
by taxing vessels using the dammed waters, but by a 
tax on the dwelling-houses of Glasgow, upcm the 
principle that the city would derive general benefit 
from the improvement, and should therefore eontri-* 
bute to defray the expense of making it. But inde^ 
pendent of such a tax, I conceive a vast mill-power 
would be acquired at the dam, and that it might pro- 
fitably be disposed of. 

It is needless to be more particular ; enough is here 
stated to show the practicability of the scheme, and 
how the means and money could be obtained, to mak^ 
those on the spot look at the subject seriously : all I 
have to add is, that having imagined and ascertained, 
by reflecting on the hints of others, that a current fronr 
the mighty St Lawrence may be turned into a navi- 
gable channel, I am not sceptical of the result of 
working with such a comparative Molendinar as the 

My legacy to the influential wisdom of Greenock 
is as practicable, and should cost very little, ais I pro- 
pose Nature to co-operate* 

Opposite the harbour of Greenock there is au ex- 


122 A LEGACY. 

tieasive sand-bank, frequently dry at low water. It is 
now the property of the town, and would, were it an 
klamdy be of great value — a device often proposed. 
My plan is to make it one, by sugar-hogsheads ; that 
id to aay, by sinking a certain number, filled with 
stones, till a nucleus was formed always dry at fiill 
tide. . 

I have observed, that the ebb water is more drwn^ 
ly than the flood, and, therefore, I propose to arrange 
the hogsheads on the bank in such a manner as to 
Iraw into their arrangement the ebb current, which 
would gradually fill up the interstices, till a small 
island appeared. 

When the nucleus was formed, I conceive the work 
would be done, for q>en spaces would be left in the 
^idosure, and in these spaces the mud and cleanings 
of the harbour might be deposited. The work has 
only to be commenced by bailies — Nature would do 
the rest, for rubbish to be shot on the spot would cost 
Ho more than an order firom the harbour-master. 
Some trifling outlay at first is all that would be re- 
quisite, unless building sites were required, and then 
the price of them would furnish a fund for further 

A LEGACY. 123 

improvements. But besides the Venetian value of 
the enclosed bank, the harbour would be improved^ 
and the roadstead converted into a river. I have 
never seen any spot more susceptible of improvement 
at so little expense ; and if I saw it well begun^ I 
would say — 

*' I have built my monument.** 

[ 124 ] 



The day was come, the trysted day, 
That drew me from the moors away, 
In wynd, or close, or stair, to speer 
If wins blithe luckie Fortune here. 
With heavy step one afternoon. 
Bearing my gun, my song a croone, 
I thought with scad of day to reach 
The Ferry publick on the beach ; 
And long ere night had closed her brods. 
To cross the loch, and sleep where cods 
And weel made beds, with sheets, I wot, 
Show inns may be where clans are not. 
But all the road I had to travel. 
Was just a clay eclipse of gravel. 
And every step I forward eltled, 
A backward slidder whelp'd or kittled. 


The day was sober, gray^ and still. 
With plaid o' mist was wrapp'd the hill. 
The burn ran brown ; the heather bell 
Shed tears, for what — ^it couldna tell. 
The ero\('s held synod, and discoursed 
Of doles ordained, and dooms the worst ; 
An owl flew past — ^her zealous passage 
Show'd she was earnest on a message. 

Star of the glen, the primrose pale 
Gleams meekly in the shaggy vale ; 
The witch-forbidding row'ns display 
Their duster'd sparks of heatless ray ; 
The sloes with sullen ripeness glow. 
As maids unsought, stale vii^ins grow ; 
And nuts — ^the crop is poor, I ween— 
Ha I I forget 'tis Halloween. 
But I must hasten while 'tis light — 
The Deil, they say, has rope this night. 
A something in forgotten time, 
Still makes this haunted night sublime ; 
A shadowy shape, a mystery past, 
Vast, black, and strange, behind is cast t 

12< TB£ 9ERRT HOUSE — 

Dreigh vras the way, but by and by 
I saw a star, no in the sky, 
But in the pubiick's window near, 
The eye of shelter beaming clear ; 
The wick so short, the candle taU, 
Denoted James was within call ; 
But from its houff the cobble flown, 
Show'd he was o'er the Ferry gone. 

There was no help — I could but bide 
For his return, let what betide ; 
So at the door I tirl'd the pin — 
It opened, and I slippet in ; 
For I had heard his marrow lay 
At death's door side, but she was ckiy. 

Streteh'd on the bed, in deadals drest, 
A plate of salt lay on her breast ; 
Quaite was the house, for death was in it — 
There lay the oorpse^^as I auld Janet ! 

No doubt the sight was very fleein, 
But well I knew she had been deein, 


And heard it said, a day or two 
Were all that she might warde lhfo\ 
It giedy tho', to my heart a stang, 
To see her yird I knew sae lang ; 
So down afore the corpse I sat, 
And lainly eerie all but grat« 

I thought of life — a shuttle flying— 
Of bairns and bears — all flesh that's dying. 
And life, that's like the blooming rose^ — 
In morning sunshine blithe it blows. 
The flower is pluek'd — its soul, the smell. 
Where is it now ? in heaven or hell ? 

Oh, mortal man I within the glass 
Thy ebbing sand is growing less. 
And at thy elbow, dart in hand. 
Ready to strike, grim Death doth stand. 
With orbless holes where eyes hare been ; 
A skull he wears — it's Halloween I 

I felt I was almost asleep. 
My limbs were tired, the way was deep. 


But to behold again that sight, 
Put SQOn irreverent sleep to flight. 
While sad to my remembrance came 
The lambent glory of a name* 

Ah I what ayails it now, I said, 
To her that lies in yon still bed, 
What gauds of pride, or gems of grace. 
Adorn the living female race ? 
What shouts of jeopardy or joy. 
The carlin's slumber can destroy ? 
What flattery soothe the calm cold heart, 
When dust from dust no more shall part. 
And all to life and fancy dear. 
Lie hush'd — ^hush'd — ^hush'd upon the bier? 
There sleep the tuneful and the brave ; 
The master there, and there the slave, 
Afer from boiling-house or pen — 
Gods 1 1 forget — I dream again ! 

Vex'd with myself, I leave my chair — 
Go to the door, breathe caller air. 


Bat soon resume my doleful seat. 
And morals strange I soon repeat ; 
For there, before me, lay the dead, 
A thing to shake the soul with dread. 
Nor is it wise, full well 1 ween. 
To wake a corpse on Halloween. 

Then, in an awed and solemn strain, 
I ruminated thus again — 
What was this world before e'er life, 
Death's parent, felt th' unfilial knife — 
What was ere space was fiU'd with rings. 
Orbits of stars, and starry things ? 

While yet I spoke, I saw the door 
Flung gently wide, and sad and sour. 
Of mean attire, two labourous men 
Come softly with a coffin ben. 
They lay it down forenent the bed. 
And from a shelf across the bead. 
Take, all in silence, from its place, 
A gardevine, and syne a glass ; 
They spoke not, but one held it out. 
The other fiU'd it— full, no doubt. 


Being refioeah'd they rise» and lay 
The shapiai hunp of kiikyard ehty 
Within the coffin's dismal womb, 
Dread prologue to the gmve and tomb. 
When all was done, with stealthy feet, 
I saw them from the hoose retreat. 

But long the silent room of death 
Was not serene — I saw a wraith— 
Auld Janet's — as I live I saw her 
Come out from hiding in a drawer, 
And lift the coffin lid and raise 
The dead as drest in its last claes. 

While mute I gaz'd, she tore the shroud. 
Death's vestment, off, and cried aloud — 
** My true gudeman, awake, prepare, 
With you this night I'll mak my lair; 
Joe of my youth, shake off this trance. 
With us thejointless dead shall dance ; 
A minstrel sprii^, at tryst or fidr. 
Is gay to hear, but we'll compare 


The dead man^s led, the glare's stmtfai^y, 
That the bKnd worms and maggots play, 
With rubs of thaim, that mortal men 
Make when long parted meet again*" 

Then up fiiU brisk the mort arose. 
Awakening from its dumb repose, 
But, oh ! he was a sight to see, 
M one that died in poverty ; 
For he was gaunt, the flesh was gone, 
Without was skin, within was bone ; 
His een did shine like blobs of dew ; 
But, oh ! his mouth I it gart me grue I 
His neck was long, his legs and arms 
Were things but seen at witching charms ; 
vHe was as Hunger's eager gnaw 
Had-toom'd his inside, kite and a' ! 

He seem'd well pleas'd, his een did show it. 
Heavens hide thae teeth I for I'm no poet ; 
To look on sights forbid life's forfeit 
Sights t necromancies of a surfeit. 

132 THE 7£BRY»HOU8E — 

But ere I wist, like lightning shed, 
A change came o'er the living dead ; 
He seem'd of glass — of shapen air, 
An outline thing, a lightless glare, 
.And all the house appeared to be 
Fill'd ^ith a countless companie, 
Since the first dawn of ages born, 
Those that had been their pride and scorn— 
The dead were there, for wondrous then, 
A mystery met my sharpen'd ken. 

Between all edges, forms, and things,^ 
That corporal sense to vision brings, 
I saw departed spirits shine. 
Souls that had liv'd, a dim outline. 
Theirs who had eam*d the world's applause, 
And theirs who perish'd by the laws — 
All, all appear'd, as if I sat 
For trial in Jehosaphat. 

1 This thought is derived from those kind of mystical engravings 
in which the French excel, where the picture presents at the 
first glance one subject, and upon examination shows in the 
outlines another. 


Again the door was open thrown^ 
And one by one, to me all known, 
Sttceesidve enter'd, old and young ; 
The shadowy bridegroom then had tongue^ 
And weleom'd them with courtesy, 
Beekon'd them in, syne said to me, 
'^ Rise, stranger, rise, sir, ye maun come, — 
But, oh I this night to take ye home t '* 

'Twas James that spoke — a moment's gleam 
Show'd I had dreamt a prophet's dream ; 
For those I saw, the guests were they. 
Since ta'en by Death : this gars me say. 
While heaven is blue and earth is green. 
Wake not a corpse on Halloween* 

[ 134 ] 



The practical effect of compensation has not yet 
been sufficiently considered as influencing improve- 
ments and reformations. 1 regard it as next to the 
desideratum ; but except in the money to be granted 
to the West Indian planters for taking from them 
their slaves, I am not aware that it has ever been 
to any great amount considered in national affairs. 
Indemnification has been often given for losses sus- 
tained ; but compensation, to &cilitate the removal of 
impediments to political measures, has never been 
legislatively estimated as a means of attaining ends. 
And yet the subject is most important. 

We do not think of opening a road, a street, or a 
canal, without allowing compensation to the proprie- 
tors for the damage which they may sustain in their 
properties ; even the wildest of the radicals do not 
dispute the justice of this, because they know that 


society is not prepared to admit that all property 
belongs to the state, and therefore the community has 
a right to do with it as it pleases. 

Individual property is still respected, but it is only 
tolerated ; for the principle of granting compensation 
to enable public improvements to be effected, shows 
that the state does unconsciously and indirectly 
acknowledge that it is aware of all property being 
really vested in the community. No doubt there 
may be two words said on this, but at present it is 
enough to advert to the hct. 

In order, however, to understand the subject aright, 
it must be conceded, that whaterer a community 
tolerates for any considerable length of time, is not 
to be attributed to the government so much as to the 
members of the community themselves. . Indeed, it 
scarcely admits of dispute, that in such cases the go- 
veniment, which must be regarded as a committee of 
management, only does what it coneeiyes is agreeable 
to the people. No doubt, governments, in erroneous 
policy, sometimes commit acts of tyranny, such, for 
example, as the revocation of the edict of Nants in 
France, by that of Lewis XIV., and there may 


be something at the time in the- state of popular 
opinion which permits the delinquency, but such mea* 
sures are not long endured, and they always lead 
to results that for ever after prevent them from being 

I remember one day, during the discussions in the 
House of Lords on the bill for the degradation of 
Queen Caroline, a remark of the Earl of Harewood's^ 
which struck me as full of wisdom, and which be-> 
tokened a humane and enlightened mind. In speak* 
ing of the popular displeasure at the proceedings 
against her Majesty, his lordship, without express- 
ing any opinion on her guilt or innocence, remarked 
that the people might be warm and wrong occasionally 
in their notions of public measures, but that they 
never failed to come right at last. 

I agree with the Earl in this sentiment ; and it 
seems to agree with what I consider to be unques- 
tionable, namely, that whatever governments may 
do, and is long endured, the people must be regarded 
as responsible for, and that therefore the principle of 
compensation should be taken into the maxims of 
national rule, as a check upon popular precipitancy, 


mi the operatioBS of prejudice. It is needless, How« 
ever, to explain the process of reflection by Trhich 
this inference is attmned. I therefore jump at once 
to the conclusion. 

In the Reform Bill I conceive the want of the 
pnndple was greatly felt, and that, as things go in 
the world, great injustice was committed. In ^^ thd 
murder of the innocents," as the disfranchisement of 
the nomination boroughs was facetiously caUed, this 
was stnkingly the case. The nation had for ages 
tolerated their existence — ^the superiority over them 
possessed by individuals had become property — ^was 
notoriously worth money, and was by the members 
of the House of Commons regarded as a vendible 
article. All the kingdom knew this. It was! as 
notorious as the sun at noon-day. 

I do not defend their political existence, I only say 
that they existed, and that the nation knew it well, 
and by connivance sanctioned the sale of seats in 
Parliaipent, by which an actual money price was 
given to the property constituted by the circumstances 
which vested the political superiority of boroughs ill 


138 ooMPKmATiav. 

Now I do not contend for tbe preaernitaoii of dns 
property. I legaTd it as baying been an old unsig^itljr 
lioiae in the middk of a new street, and I say tb* 
proprietor should have been compensated ix tbe de- 
8truction« Tbe old booses in schedule A were pre- 
osely of ibis descxiption, and there was imquty in 
tianflfendng from them to more popular ]da€es the pri- 
Til^;e of sending members to Pariiament, witkooit 
making compensation. For in my opinkm, tlioi^ 
the nation, and state of things in it, did require some 
change, notUng existed to justify tbe confiscation of 
the political property in boroughs. No faultbadbeen 
committed by the owners to justify the extraor^nary 
mulct or punishment inflicted ; and I presume to say, 
that if the public hare derived benefit from the 
reform, it is owing to ^* the murder of the imiocents,'' 
and I am persuaded that there is a dormant asoae of 
fidmess in the country, that, if once awakened, will 
give the compensation which should be made* 

It is quite certain that the West Indian jdantets 
Lad no better right to the property in their sia^ea^ 
than ^ nominators of the boroughs in schedule A, 
for instance, had to their privileges ; and who is the 

OOMnclllATIOK* 139 

man possened of common sense, hj whom the 
L.2Oy0OO,OOO assured to them as the price of procii« 
ring tl» emancipation, is objected ? That price, be 
it observed, is given to improve the condition of 
others, whereas the Reform Bill was passed to im- 
prove our own. " Charity begins at home f" 

I am aware that at this time any proposition for 
compensation or indemnification to the proprieton of 
the boroughs in schedule A would be scouted with 
fakses and scorn, for they are r^arded as (lenders ; 
but my confidence in the ^rit of fairness which per* 
vades the British public is so great, that I am per* 
suaded that at last the question will be seen in its 
true light, and that it ought in the end to be all the 
debate, if the cUdevant borough-holders are courage- 
ous enough to assert their right, what shall be the 
mode of levying a tax for their behoof. I say their 
right, for I conceive their time-sanctioned privilege 
to nominate the members of their boroughs was no 
less; and I would ask, by what better tenure than 
popular permission are estates held? All earthly 
happiness is notioi^, and if it contribute to the glory 
of a mt^ariimous people to give L.20,*00,000 


sterling in order tliat 800,000 slaves may be free» 
how much more worthy of their character would it ba 
to give a few hundred thousands to indemnify those 
from whom they have taken the means of advancing*' 
their own political condition ? 

The mode of indemnifying the proprietors (that 
were) of the disfranchised boroughs is so very easy, 
that one would almost fancy it had been providentially- 

It only requires us to go upon the principle of the 
price of land, and we have very simple data for our 
calculation. Take the price of land, for example, at 
twenty years' purchase of the rental, and you have 
only to apply the same rule in estimating the value 
of the boroughs. Thus it should be ascertained 
what was the average annual value of a seat in 
Parliament under the old system, and multiply that 
by the number of years agreed on as to the period 
for which compensation should be made ; the multi- 
plicand would give the amount. The sum would 
not be great ; therefore, till it be paid, let not the 
people revel in their freedom, or imagine that they 
have attained it without revolutionary immorality. 

[ Hi ] 


In riant hours, the buxom May * 
Bids laughing streams deride the sun, 
And birds be blithe and lilies gay, 
And shouting children leap and run* 

Like topaz bright on lady's breast. 

The nuzzling bee sucks on the flower ; 

And garlanded all in their best, 

The trees have donn d like maids their dower. 

The cuckoo from the leafy bough 
Alarms the churl who walks alone ; 
The whistling swains the fallows plough. 
And maidens sigh and poets moan. 

There's not a bloom on bush or brier 
But lures the old to pluck and smell ; 
The songsters of the woodland choir 
But pleasures to the young foretell. 

142 MAY. 

The bleating lambs to mothers dear 
Awaken kindness'in the heart ; 
And wingless milkmaids, singing clear, 
With larks and linnets bear a part. 

The delver sees o'er cher^'d seed 
Green omens of the summer's smile. 
And, half rduetant, nips the weed 
That peeps unbidden from the soil. 

The duck floats proudly in the pool, 
Her callow young are sailing nigh ; 
The &r-come galley, rich and full, 
Not prouder round sees wherries ply. 

The cottage smoke, a shadowy tree, 
Stands in the calm and sunny air, 
And hopping miUs, whose plashing glee 
The wading schoolboys seem to share. 

The cat purs on the roof serene. 
And slyly oft the sparrow eyes ; 
Stretch'd in the sunshine, on the green. 
The panting dog in slumber lies* 

MAT. 143 

. Tlie blacUbivd in hig wiekear keep 
fiebeanes olden minstreby ; 
And nystie surdOows chdiiig sweep^ 
Skiird in the craft of miBonry. 

Their webs in winter woTen, lo I 
The ruddy daonsds singing i^read^ 
And seeds of purity they sow. 
In shining showers of silver shed. 

With iiimble brush and carol shrill 
He painter at the window stands^ 
And nesters fmr the fiirzy hill 
Enlist for Satorday their bands. 

With willow pipes delighted sit. 
In shadow eool of kiln or barn, 
Melodions urchins, concert-emit. 
And chixps of heavenly rq)ture leanu 

Not happier he on stone in stream, 
Who tranc'd the travelling traitor eyes. 
And glorying in the clouded beam. 
Plucks twinkling stars from nether skies. 

144 MAT. 

As bless'd, more bless'd, the prattling chiklj 
Who crowns the labouring waggon's load; 
Sublime on shudd'iing chattels piled. 
And moving to a new abode. 

He shares not with his sire beloW 
The carking of the bosom's ache, 
Nor deems the home he soon shall know, 
A refuge poverty must take. 

O, spring of life I May of the mind ! 
Thy gorgeous wreaths are doom'd to fade— • 
But why to sadness so inclined. 
Should I thus seek the solenm shade ? 

Why thus the vernal nymph abjure 
That laves the world with light and song ? 
Ah ! bright sweet May, thou hast no cure,— 
My anguish Life can but prolong. 

May 16, 1824. 

[ 145 ] 


One afternoon, about the end of May, a West 
Country stage-coach drove into an inn in London, 
and from the outside a young man alighted, eighteen 
or nineteen years of age, dressed in mourning. In 
his hand he held a bundle of papers tied in a handker- 
chief. It was fastened to his wrist with a strings 
thereby intimating that he esteemed it of importance* 
After alighting, he waited to receive a small old- 
fashioned trunk deposited in the boot. 

The appearance of David Apjones was very pre- 
possessing* His countenance shone with intelligence,, 
and the blithe frankness of his eyes bespoke cheerful- 
ness and confidence. He was indeed an uncommonly 
handsome youth, altogether such as in any circumr- 
stances would have been remarkable. His air had in 
it something distinguished above the fashion of his 
clothes, which Were only such as ate worn by the 

VOL. II, jn 


sprucer order of village beaux ; they were, however, 
new, and showed that they had only been recently 
put on in memoiy of a friend. 

While he was standing in the yard, Mr Halford 
stepped from the inside of the coach, an old gentle- 
man, somewhat eccentric in his appearance, but withal 
^uiet and respectable. His dress was of an pbsolete 
eut, and, though his physiognomy indicated great 
good-nature, he affected a droll brittleness of temper, 
-which evidently owed as much to voluntary whim as 
4o natural temperaments The general style of his 
-appearance showed that he was a bacheW, and the 
neatness of his apparel that he was in comfortable 

- Seeing our young hero standing by himself, he 
went towards him, and entered into a casual conver- 
sation, observing that he must have had a pleasant 
ride on the outside, as the aspect of the country 
was then fresh and luxuriant, and the day had been 
sunny and beautiful. 

" O, yes !" replied the ingenuous youth, ^ it was 
delightful ; and, as I have all my life been bred in a 
nook of the world, you can't imagine what enjoyment 

THE UNKKOWtr. 147 

I have bad im. cojadog towards diig great town« the 
very smoke of which is magnifieent — ^to me it teemed 


^< Hem!'" ejaculated Mr Halford, pumog his 
inouth ; ^^ strao^e phrMeology* J dare sayt young 
man, you're a verse-make/?" 

<' O, yes r' replied the lad, smiling, ^' I do some- 
times write poetry." 

^^ Poetry I" said Mr Halford, ^^ I guessed as 
mudi ; aud what is it about ? no doubt, lambkins milk- 
white and shady greeu trees ?" 

<' No, no/' replied the young Welshman, ^' it is 
better than that. In thi« handkeidiief I have the 
manuscript of an epic poem." 

^ Aye, rhymesters idways begia with epics, but 
they find their level at last in doggrcd ditties, the 
very keBnels of the Muses." 

^ I don't kndw that," replied Apjeoes ; ^^ but Mr 
Lloyd used to say mine was very good, and that I 
had only to get some person of critical diaserament 
to read it, to be convinced that better things might be 
expected from me." 
V Well, that is ingenuous, however^" said the old 


gentleman ; ^* and where do you hope to meet with 
such a discerning friend?" 

** Oh, there are plenty of such in the world I la 
London, to be sure. What did I come here for?" 

A slight shade of sadness darkened the visage of 
Mr Halford at this speech ; and the guard coming at 
the moment to Apjones with his trunk, Mr Halford 
gave him his card, saying, 

** I will be really pleased to see you at my house 
when you are settled in lodgings ;" and smiling pen- 
sively, added, " I desire above all things to become 
acquainted with an unfledged poet." 

Apjones promised to call, and Mr Halford went 

** He is a main good gentleman that," said the 
guard, " and always goes and comes by we ; but he 
has a temper, and so has a pepper-box, as I knows." 

After some additional jargon, he conducted the 
bardling to a lodging-house hard by, kept by an 

In the meantime Mr Halford, in his way home, 
involuntarily thought of his young fellow-traveller, 
whose openness of disposition and simplicity had in a 


short conversation greatly interested him. But on 
his arrival at home an unforeseen occurrence changed 
the subject of his ideas, and he forgot all about him* 
This was in consequence of finding there a lady, a 
relation from the country, who had come to transact 
some indispensable law business in town. 

Mrs Seymour passed a very gloomy and sequester- 
ed widowhood. In early life the vessel in which she 
was coming from Ireland with her husband, an officer, 
and child, was wrecked on the coast of Wales, and aU 
on board but herself had perished. It was thought 
for some time that the baby would have been heard 
of, as it was laid in a sailor^s chest to protect it ; but 
a wave bursting over the wreck, carried the chest 
away. She had been herself soon after rescued by a 
passing vessel, but before greater assistance could be 
rendered, the packet foundered with all on board. 

This melancholy accident made an indelible im* 
pression on the lady. She passed her days in the 
monotony of mourning, and, except on the occasion 
which called her to London at this time, had never, 
for more than eighteen years, left the unfrequented 
habitation in which she had secluded herself. 


For Ms sonowM kinswoman Mr Halford had great 
sympadiy, mneli more than the world gave him credit 
for entertaining ; and in the hope that she might be 
Won in some degree from her grief, he invited to hi» 
iKWwe, as a companion for her while in London, the 
daughter of a friend, for whom, on account of her 
talents, he cherished a fatherly partiality. 

Rosetta Claremont was indeed no ordinary girl, 
for, in addition to superior personal beauty, she pos- 
sessed » singular power of intuitive discernment. 
Others, as well as herself, thought this rare tact but 
superior skill in physiognomy. It was, however, a 
finer endowment; for though essentially of that 
quality, it was extremely delicate and penetrating* 
A spirituality in the way by which it affected her, 
rendered it 6kin to genius— something not easily de- 
scribed, and yet palpable, as an air is felt to be higher 
than a tune, or as the melody of some voices is supe- 
rior to others, and yet not more truly musical. 

When Mr Halford had been some days with the 
ladies, he recollected the young bard, giving a de- 
scription of him, and adding jocularly, that he was a 
fit subject for Rosetta to test with her skill- This 


led to llie expvesnon of » wish that ke would eaO, 
and excited a d^ree of curiosity to 84e hmi ; but as 
several days passed and he did not come, she began to 
suppose that he was not very extraordinary. At last 
one morning he did make his appearance, and was 
cordially welcomed by Mt Halford. 

Nothing about the youth seemed to have under- 
gone any change* His conversation was gay and 
ingenuous, and he gave an account of the sights he 
had seen at once picturesque and interesting. The 
halo of a poetical taste invested all he described, and 
the old gentleman and the young lady were highly 
pleased with their friend, for his candour made him 
seem to them as such almost from the moment' he 

Mrs Seymour was not m ^he room ; she only passed 
him on the stair as he was going away, and when she 
came in, she silently took a seat beside Mr Halford 
and Rosetta, according to custom, without speaking. 

Whether, on her entrance, she evinced any symp- 
toms of agitation, cannot be now ascertained, for her 
nlence was so usual as to excite no particular renuirk. 
In about half an hour, however, after, when the 


visitor wiui no longer the subject of conversation, she 
suddenly burst into tears and retired to her own 
chamber, greatly affected by some pungent undivulged 

<< I wonder/' said Mr Halford, ^^ what has come 
over my cousin : she seems to have felt a sudden 
sharper pang than usual." 

. *^ I have noticed/' replied Rosei;ta, ^' that she was 
shaken with some unaccountable fear, as if beset with 
imaginations different from the topic of her grief, 
though connected with it. What can they have been ? "^ 

Nothing more particular then passed ; but, when 
the disconsolate lady made her appearance again, 
instead of the solemn melancholy habitual to her 
countenance, her eyes were unsettled, her complexion 
flushed, and a wild hectic glow occasionally flamed on 
her cheek, as if she manifested some prognostication of 
a malady. At last she said, with a kind of hysterical 
voice, — 

** Were it not foolish, I could assert that I have 
seen my husband's ghost, in the self*same shape, and 
dressed as when I first saw him. He had just then 
buried his &ther, and was in mourning." 


Mr Halford, who was naturally iiu^edulous, ehclea- 
Youred to turn her mind into a different channel, but. 
Rosetta, with her usual curious metaphysical bias, 
said, she thought so much of Captain Seymour, that 
it was not surprising if sometimes she should fancy 
that she saw him. 

" True," said the mournful lady ; " I see him al- 
ways as I saw him last. His image is never absent, 
but this apparition was not as I have ever seen him, 
save on that day when we first met." 

Her seriousness precluded all reply. No questions 
were asked as to when she had seen the phantom, and 
it was never imagined that the visit of Apjones could 
have any connexion with her superstitious delusion. 

In the meantime, the poet had carried his Epic to 
an eminent publisher, who received him, or the ma- 
nuscript in his hand, very graciously. There was, 
nevertheless, something in the reception rather gritty, 
blended with the suavity of artificial politeness — some- 
thing of an assumed superiority which made him feel, 
as it were, belonging to a lower condition than that 
of the portly and prosperous bookseller; for it is one 
of the mysteries of the craft to make authors secretly 


feel, diat in the republic of letters, paUidbers are of 
a Idgher grade* 

The publisher, on observing the sdse of the manu- 
script, said, with an air of indifference, *^ The taste 
of tiie age requires works, especially fictions, which 
I suppose this is, to be in three yolomes. Single 
volumes won't serve." 

** Yes," replied Apjones, ** it is a fiction ; but 
who ever heard of three volumes of poetry published 
for the first time?'* 

" Poetry 1" cried the bibliopole* " God bless your 
innocence ! Poetry's a drug ; unless it be somethings 
like Milton's Paradise Lost, no publisher in his senseai 
will touch it.'* 

** Ah," replied the green author, "but all time has 
only produced one Paradise Lost." 

** Very true, young gentleman," said the " one ot 
the trade," " and that shows you how dangerous it is 
to soil your fingers with making verses ; for, had Mil- 
ton lived in this age of Reviews, I doubt very mudi 
if he would have been so great a man. For my part, 
I believe every thing is in a name. Had Milton 
brought his work to me, and off^ed it for five guineas 


instead of the fifteen he got, I doubt if I ooold have 
ffjea him half the monejr. No, no — it won*t suit. 
Anonymous poetty won't do ; you must get a name 
before you can hope to succeed with the trade.** 

" But how can I till I have published ?" said Ap* 
Jones, with boyi^ rimpKcity. 

" Get a friend — some one known by reputation,*^ 
was the reply. 

The bard, on hearing this, recollected Mr Halford,. 
and with that knowledge of the world for which stu- 
dious young men are so modestly eminent, determined 
on the instant to call on him, and to enlist him in his- 
cause, for he had met with no other in London who^ 
seemed so likely to be a friend ; accordingly, after a 
few words further, he departed, leaving the manu- 
script with the bookseller, sjaying, he would call again 
in the course of the day, with an acquaintance. 

He had not one in his confidence in the metropolis,, 
but he thought Mr Halford might be of use to him, 
and to this cause the visit was owing which we have 
already described. The kindness of his reception made 
his hopes burn brighter. 

During the visit, the conversation being general^ 


Apjones found no opportunity to introduce the subject 
of his publication ; but, as he was invited to return to 
dinner, he was not, in consequence, disconcerted ; in« 
deed, he thought it would be better then to speak of 
his object. In this, however, he acted as a young 
man, for certainly it was very juvenile to imagine that 
though Mr Eblford had invited him to his house, he 
yet cared two straws about him. The invitation to- 
dinner was no doubt something palpable, but we shall 
see the result. 

While Apjones was absent at Mr Halford's, a well- 
known author of that day happened to call at the 
publisher's shop, and the bibliopole, handing the ma^ 
nuscript, told him a very laughable story of the school- 
boy to whom it belonged, particularly about thinking 
himself another Milton, requesting the author, in the 
most benevolent manner, on the lad's account, ^^ to 
look at the poems of the minor." 

The veteran literatus, having learned by experience 
something of the tricks of the trade, pretended that 
he could not at that time take the manuscript with 
him. In the evening, however, the bookseller sent 
\t to hb house, f^r, in accordance to the aforesaid 


system, he craftily desired to obtain an opinion of the 
work on which he could rely. 

Mrs Seymour was not at dinner. She had been 
so much a^tated with the belief of having seen the 
ghost of her husband, that she was unable to make 
her appearance. The party, however, consisted of 
our hero, Rosetta, Mr Halford, and a stranger. 

When the servants had withdrawn, the conversa- 
tion became free, and Apjones, full of the idea of 
rising to distinction, was lively and interesting, espe- 
cially in the use of that recondite phraseology which 
Iiad first attracted the attention of his host. He 
seemed, indeed, a very accomplished young man, full 
of elegant literature, possessing that kind of classical 
allusion in his expressions which indicates the well- 
educated who attain excellence in public speaking. 
The stranger was delighted with him ; but now and 
then Rosetta Claremont, whose discernment w^s so 
peculiar, looked at him with a cast of anxiety in her 
countenance, as if she perceived something artificial 
and unsound in his gaiety. 

It happened that in the course of the small talk 
that circulated with the dessert, Mr Halford forgot 

156 .TH£ UlfKlfOWN. 

josxr hsto'n name, andf with unneeewuy address, en- 
quired how he happened to be called idiffereatly froai 
his father? 

" O, " replied the youth, ** Ido not know who was 
my father*" 

All the party looked aghast* 

" 'Tis true," continued he, " Mr lioyd was in all 
. but in name my father. I am a foundling — ^the only 
4oul saved from a wredk on our coast. I was found 
^^nbedded in a seaman's chest, and Mr Lloyd brought 
me up as his own child. He was a dergyman, and 
I was an orphan." 

This was said unaffectedly, but the impression on 
die company was serious. It spoiled tiieir hilarity, 
. 4uid occasioned to Apjones an indescribable dryness, 
. which he felt in his heart, but could not explain. 

On both Mr Halford and Rosetta the effect was 
very solemn. They knew of Mrs Seymour's mis- 
fortune, of which, however, their information was not 
Tery circumstantial, but it reminded them of the sor- 
row she had long suffered, and they rejoiced that she 
Jiappened not then to be present* 

During the remauoider of the evenings the hue of 


the conversaiiou chaiiged» aad the gifted, young lady- 
looked often at the adventurer with mingled pity and 
&ar. Why she did so, is not revealed to us ; but it is 
soertain that there are minds so constituted^ that they 
«eem most sprightly when they are known to have 
the greatest cause for apprehension. 

" So the .face may be tinged with a warm, sunny smiley 
While the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the wliile." 

Apjones himself perceived the alteration which his 
unstudied statement had produced, but he took no 
other notice of it, only enquiring at Rosetta if she 
had ever been in Wales, and began to describe the 
coast of his childhood with enthusiasm, tinted with 
poetry. ** Often," said he, " I have wished since I 
came to London to be there agdn, but it is probable 
I never shall — and yet there was nothing in its aspect 
to make me so attached. But who looks for beauty 
in the face of an old friend ? The residence of Mr 
Lloyd was at the bottom of a steep green hill, where 
here and there the rocks, covered with silvery lichens, 
looked out in fragments of cliffs and precipices. Not 
a tree was to be seen ; only a large thorn grew near 
the house, and a few sheep dotte4, as it were, the sides 


of the hill. Yet it was a pleasant place, an<l the 
summer waves ran so playfully on the shore, that the 
heart was gladdened to see them. And then in the 
winter storm, how majestic was the turbulence ! the 
sea was as a battle ; and when a ship was then seen 
gliding along the horizon, it seemed as the War God 
descended from Olympus. O, lady 1 you cannot 
imagine the fine anarchy of a tempestuous ocean ! " 

But though he spoke with energy and elocution, 
his animated descriptions failed. Mr Halford sat 
silent, with his mouth pursed, — ^the stranger shared 
his taciturnity, and was perplexed,.^~while the eyes 
of the young lady were often fixed with a keener 
inquisition on the features of Apjones, at all times 
luminously prepossessing. In excitement they exhi- 
bited a mental radiance often striking. She observed 
that while describing his early home, a tear rose in 
his eye, glistening with regret and remembrance. 

At a becomiag hour the poet and the other guest 
went away ; but, instead of leaving his chair, Mr 
Halford continued to meditate, and Miss Rosetta 
said, with a peculiar shrewdness, that she hoped Mr 
Apjones was happy. 


« Why do you doubt ?" said Mr Halford. " You 
saw how he sparkled. O, he is one of your poe- 
tieal salamanders that live in an element in which all 
others would perish." 

" I wish/' was the reply of the lady, ** that he 
does not on the contrary feel too much that he is only 
a human being." 

" There is nothing," answered the thoughtful old 
gentleman, <^ that one could desire altered in his 
appearance — ^his flights in conversation would become 
a minstrel; but one ought really to know something 
about every body one asks to one's house. I was 
pleased with the lad's looks, and invited him, not 
dreaming then that he was but a helpless foundling. 
He may now fix himself on me : I am foolish to be so 
rash with my invitations." 

Rosetta, instead of replying, answered, " that she 
was glad Mrs Seymour had kept her own room. His 
story would have been too much for her — it was so 

*« Pathetic I well, I thought," said Mr Halford, 
i '^ that he told it with very great levity. I did not 

I like such indifference." 


! VOL. II. o 


" Oh 1 it was only io his manner," exclaimed the 
young lady. ^^ I noticed, when he had finished tlie 
brief narration, he looked around as one that is vevy 
forlorn. His levity was no deeper than his smile, 
the complexion of the skin : his spirit, I am sure^ was 
very sad/' 

In cursory reflections of this kind they spent the 
remainder of the evening. The old gentleman was 
not quite well satisfied widi himself, and Rosetta 
retired to her own room, with her head more occu- 
pied with Apjones than was propitious to her sleep 
and di^ams; an interest without affection. 

In going to dine with Mr Halford, Apjones had 
an object in view ; fen* although he had been only a 
few days in London, he had found the necessity of 
having friends in it, especially after what had passed 
with the publisher, and he had hoped that some occa- 
^on might arise in which he could, slight as their 
acquaintance was, speak of what he felt the need of; 
but the presence of an entire stranger, not parti- 
cularly conciliatory, checked his intention, and he 
returned to his lodgings with a feeling of vexation* 
amounting almost to disappointment* 


In the meantune, the distiog^hed author to whom 
the publisher sent the manuscript, was, m spite of a 
contrary predetermination, much smrprised with the 
exhibition of talent \vhich scintillated in many places ; 
but he was affected with the spirit of trade, from 
which the literary fraternity are not more exempt than 
lawyers or tailors, or other artists of any kind. Its 
dominion and jurisdiction is over all who make their 
livelihood by the rivalry of industry or ability. Mili* 
tary men and sailors only are untainted with its in-* 

Whether this arises from the endeavour to obtaia 
distinction, which with them is held to be equivalent 
to money, is doubtful ; perhaps it may be owing to 
the path which leads to the eminences of fame lying 
through dangers. Be this, however, as it may, the 
author knew that the world buys only a limited num- 
ber of all books, and that a work which might become 
popular would cause a diminution in the sale of others 
— among which, that of his own would be contracted. 
Accordingly, unconscbusly he resolved to give but 
a cool report of our adventurer's epic ;• and when he 
returti^ the manuscript, he (fid so. 


He damned with faint praise ; saying, ^^ for a lad, 
certainly, the piece had merit, but then youthiness 
is impressed on every page. Were I," said he, " to 
write a critique of the work for any periodical, I 
could easily, by a few quotations, make it appear 
that the author was a very extraordinary genius, if I 
chose ; and, in like manner, were I actuated by ini- 
mical motives, I could demonstrate that it was a poor 
commonplace affair. In a few words, it is a crude 
performance ; but though it betokens the possession of 
considerable talent, and talent of no ordinary kind, it 
is still the production of one who is indisputably not 
a veteran in literature." 

The bookseller, in consequence of this very candid 
Opinion, resolved to have nothing to do with the pub- 

" If," replied he, " it were a novel, or any sort of 
prose composition, one would have less doubt about 
it ; but excellence in poetry is so very rare, and is, 
by the by, so like only what is respectable, a very 
bad quality in a poem, that I shall wash my hands 
of it." 

Accordingly, when Apjon^s called in the course of 


the day, he received back the manuscript, the pub-* 
lisher mentioning that he had glanced at the work, 
and that he could not, \vith the present state of his 
engagements, undertake the publication. 

The poor bard received the papers with no very 
enviable emotion; being, however, a courageous 
youth, he apparently sustained no acute disappoint- 
ment, though all his hopes of obtaining patronage in 
the world depended on the work. But his little means 
not being yet much diminished, he went with ardour 
to another publisher, not perhaps with the same con- 
fidence, but still with no obvious change in his ex- 
pectations ; they were neither so erect nor vigorous, 
it 4s true, but in no remarkable degree faded. 

Some time after, the stranger again dined with Mr 
Halford, when Mrs Seymour, being more composed 
than on the former occasion, was at table. Their 
conversation was not very recherche ; it consisted of 
the topics of the day, till he happened to observe that 
he had lately met the young man in the street with 
whom he had dined on his last visit. 

" I was not at first sure it was him, for I did not 
speak to him, but he looked at me eamestly-*40 


earnestly, that, notwithstanding his altered appear- 
ance, in the end I recognised him. I suspect, poor 
lad, he has fallen in with bad associates — these birds 
of prey are ever ready to pounce on strangers ; he 
seemed much thinner, the colour had left his cheeks^ 
and his eyes had that febrile brightness which indi- 
cates something morbid and unsound." Then, turning 
round to Mrs Seymour, with whose sad story he was 
unacquainted, he informed her that he had been much 
interested by the prepossessing appearance of the 
young man, and still more by his situation, ^^ He 
is," said he, " a foundling." 

'^ A foundling !" cried the lady with an impassioned 

<* Yes ; found, as he told us, on the coast of Wales, 
in a seaman's chest, when an infant." 

Mrs Seymour uttered a scream, and starting from 
her seat, fell senseless on the floor. When recovered, 
she told her own story, and wildly entreated to be 
taken to the youth, declaring that he could be no 
other than her son, and the same she had thought 
was the ghost of her husband. 

It is unnecessary to describe the commotidn — all 


etiquette was disregarded — and Mr Halford, who had 
taken the adventurer^s address, agreed at once to 
accompany her to his lodgings ; — they drore directly, 
and with speed to the house, but on arriving, were 
told that he had long left, and that it was not known 
there what had become of him. A neighbouring girl,, 
however, happening to overhear their anxious en- 
quiry, recollected to what part of the town he had 
removed, and gave diem the direction. 

They went to it, but he had not remained there- 
more than a week : the anxiety of Mrs Seymour in- 
creased, and they persevered in search of him, till, in 
a mean court olBF Gray's Inn Lane, the house was- 
found to which be had retired. 

He was not at home when they arrived, and iitey 
waited for some time in expectation of his return* 
Mrs Seymour frequently wept bitterly, and Mr Hal- 
ford examined the squalor of the obscure and beg- 
garly apartment. It was a dingy garret, that had 
once been whitewashed ; the walls were here and 
there inscribed with hieroglyphical sentences, and in 
one place over the broken plaster was pasted a balla(£ 
with an illustrative cut> representing two men hang-*^ 


ing on a gibbet. The furniture became the orna- 
ments* Three paralytic chairs with matted bottoms, 
one of them ragged, were as seats ; a large chest was 
the substitute of a table and a closet, and a quantity 
of straw, with a piece of old carpeting in a comer, 
showed probably the sleeping-place, for there was no 

When Mr Halford had examined the contents of 
the room, he proposed to Mrs Seymour, rather than 
wait in such a place the uncertain return of Apjones, 
to go back to the carriage ; and accordingly request- 
ed an old woman, with a red shawl round her neck, 
and a shabby black silk handkerchief tied above her 
cap, to mention to him when he came home that Mr 
Halford had been there, and would soon return. 
They then went to the carriage, and on account of 
the meanness of the neighbourhood, instead of stop- 
ping longer at the entrance of the court, gave direc- 
tions to the cos^chman to take a short drive to con- 
sume the time. 

While so engaged, the landlady had occasion to go 
out on some errand of household thrift, and during 
her absence, Apjones returned. 


He went up at once to his own room, and having 
seated himself, looked around with a wan and raven- 
ous gaze, a kind of insane vacancy of look, and then 
drew from his pocket a labelled phial, which he placed 
on the chest that served for a table. 

His dress was much altered, as well as his personal 
appearance. Instead of the mourning which he had 
worn for Mr Lloyd, he had on other and very shabby 
apparel ; his shoes were old and mended ; his trow- 
sers stained and patched; an old black waistcoat, 
buttoned close to the throat, concealed that he was 
without a shirt; and his coat of tattered blue had 
only three or four brass buttons remaining; — ^no 
spectacle could be more wretched, for his clothes 
only served to make misery conspicuous. 

After sitting some time in a mournful mood, he 
hastily drew several papers from his pocket — ^they 
were the manuscripts of his epic — ^he looked at them 
with a wild sadness, and seizing the phial which lay 
beside him, swallowed the contents with a shudder ; 
but he had scarcely done so, when again gazing for a 
moment at the phial, he suddenly, with a trembling 

VOL. II. p 


Iiand, flung it away, and dropping on his knees and 
clasping his hands, uttered some fearful ejaculations. 

At this crisis, the landlady came in, and delivered 
Mr Halford's message ; but he listened as if he heard 
her not, and she soon after left the room, looking at 
him suspiciously askance as she retired. The disturb- 
ance which this occasioned induced him to resume 
his seat, and he continued to sit with his hands list* 
lessly locked in one another, as if he expected some- 
thing would come to pass. After a short pause, he 
lifted again the manuscript, the leaves of which he 
turned carelessly over, and here and there read a few 
verses^ On one occasion he smiled, but abruptly 
recollecting himself, he indignantly tore the poem 
into pieces, and threw his eyes around with the same 
wild flash as when he first entered the apartment, 
clasping his hands deliriously in the air, and exclaim^ 
ing, " It is too late I" 

At this juncture, Mr Halford and Mrs Seymour 
returned, and the moment that the agitated lady be^ 
held him, she cried, in frenzy, ^^ It is my own, my 
long lost Seymour I" and threw herself senseless in 
bis arms ; but before she could be recovered, the poi- 


son he had swallowed began to take effect, and he 
could only articulate in broken sentences. 

Without observing the alteration, the exulting 
mother sprung up, and cried with frantic accents, ^^ I 
tied myself a ring round his neck," and tearing his 
waistcoat open, beheld a ribbon, but instead of a ring, 
she only found a bit of rag containing a pawnbroker's 
duplicate, and in the same moment he fell from his 
chair and expired I 

[ "2 1 


" Ah, me I how gross," I heard a Geni say, 
" Are the perceptions of the creature man ! 
He lives in twilight, and believes it day, 
And from Beersheba even unto Dan 
Chatters of orbits and the milky way. 
As if infinitude were but a span, 
And he, the wight, could mete Nature's stupendous 
plan I 

^* Stars he calls suns, and dreams of orbs sublime. 

When thus the freckles of the night he names ; 

Tells us of cycles, eddy swirls of time, 

In the great shoreless ocean's stream, and claims 

Stern durability for hills. That chime 

The moon rings monthly on the signs, he frames 

Into a melody, and storms by it he tames. 

^' What is in all this solemn mystery. 

That they who know th' eternal vast of space 


With awe should note ? Clipt by the boundary 

Of that which has none, there must be a place 

Within tbe measureless periphery. 

Where shining spheres run their appdlnted race 

As broad in their bright disks as vision can embrace. 

" Yet these great orbs, bowFd by th' Ahnighty hand, 
Which roll unknown to mortals of the earth, 
Do less amazement by their might command 
Than the small myriads of viewless birth, 
Whose globe and world *s a pile of drifting sand, 
A fruitful atom in the Arabian dearth. 
Children of God are they, and may be bless'd for 

'^ To think the scope and purposes of things 

(It is a darkling vapour of the mind) 

Can e'er be scann'd by man — yes, thoughts have wings 

With which they fly to regions unconfin'd ; 

But still they feel entanglement, and strings 

That to a round their finite freedom bind, 

Careering in the light, or riding on the wind." 


The Geni ceased ; but to my throbbing ear 
His words of truth a hunibliDg import bore — 
How small is man, how circumscrib'd his sphere ; 
His life an instant was, and is no more t 
With conscious shame opprest, I wept that e'er 
I deem'd the earth was aught but dross or ore, 
Or such a thing as man could be, but to deplore^ 

C n5 ] 



FoaMzaLT or salim. 

'Cording to my *ployer in Tooley Street, of the 
King's Village at the end of the London Bridge, 
which was ruinated last year to make people go round 
by a new fabrication 'rected in honour of Squire Wel- 
lington's defeats, which, by all 'counts, were equal to 
victories, after leaving the Falkland Islands, we took 
our course right away south and by west, where 
it was supposed we should find whales and seals as 
plentiful and lively as tumbling sea-hogs. 

'Cording to orders, we sailed without 'pediment for 
a pretty considerable long time, when one evening at 
sun-down, Mr M^Farlane, the mate, 'ported that the 
air was as thick as butter-milk, and that the sun had 
no more shine in it than a Suffolk cheese. 

This 'larming 'telligence made me spring in a jiffey 
on deck, and, to be sure, M'Farlane had com«i 


mitted no 'gravation, for, though the air was not quite 
so thick as milk and water, it would have made the 
common tea milk of London look dev'lish blue. As 
for the sun, if it was not like a cheese — and like a 
Suffolk cheese, too — I would be very much 'bliged to 
any citizen to find me a more neater 'smilitude. 

Having consternated some time at this phynome- 
non, I 'suited with the mate about 'verhauling the 
vessel, and to lie-to for convenience till next morn- 
ing, which he highly 'pproved of; so we lay-to, 'cause 
it would have been a leetle courageous to have kept 
our course in such a fog as was then lying on the 
smooth sea all before us,' like loose cotton before it is 
packed in the bag. 

This fog grew thicker and thicker, inasmuch, that 
next morning, about two hours after sunrise, we could 
not, without a Vestigation, discern the mainmast from 
the tiller head, nor any mother's son on board, at more 
distance than the length of himself. Every sailor, 
at arm's length off, seemed more of a blue devil than 
a man. 

Moved from the spot where we were, would have 
been most 'pertinent, and the sea 'vironated. every 


now and then ; M^Farlane, the mate, a brave fellow^ 
gave a most 'dadous whistle, which showed that he 
was not in a 'mendable state of mind. That day 
we lay like a hulk — not a flan of wind could be 
descried ; and Mr M^Farlane 'gan to say, in a very 
funeral manner, that he hoped it would not come to 
blow. I had, however, my own fears, but 'ticulated 

In the afternoon, we had a touch of the temper of 
the weather, and the fog became 'spersed, and the 
wind to blow out like a squaw puffing her 'bacoo. 
The night, then nearing, was to us no feather*bed 
prospect, but the ship lay her course. 

As the sun rose next morning, the wind began to 
strengthen till it blew — ^my eye I how it did blow out 
of the north-east, which made the ship snoove through 
the water at such a rate, that it would be a prejudice 
to truth to say she did not fly over the waves like a 
biddy to roost. 

When the sun set again, there was no fog. The 
ship was going as manfully as a drum-major, and the 
sun was as bright as any yellow bottle in the 'pote* 


Gary's window. M^Farlane, who was then all sights 
touched me softly on the arm, whereupon I stepped 
aside with him. 

" Do you see yon ?" said he, in a low voice like a 
whisper, or as if he had got a hoarse cold. 

"What?" said I. 

" I think," said he, " it is an island." 

The sailor at the mast-head, in the same catas- 
tophre, called out, " Land I" And as we were hurl- 
ing along at a galloping rate, before dark, we were 
in full view of the prospect of another world. I tpld 
M^Farlane that it was certainly the southern continent 
of Terra 'Cognity. 

'^ Then," cried he, snapping his fingers above his 
head, " I wouldn't take a thousand pounds for my 
chance, for I shall be 'nother Clumbus, as you can't 
deny, captain, but to go for to testificate that I saw 
M^Farlane's Land first, and that is the name of it." 

We then shortened sail and came to good anchor- 
age in a considerable bay, with something like nine- 
teen fathom water. By this time the hills arhead 
loomed large and dark, and I 'knowledged, with 
the mate, that we should not take possession till next 


morning, at a reasonable hour; and, as he saw the land 
first, I sent him, not to damage the right of King 
George, to the discovery, M^Farlane chartering that 
I should have a handsome per centage on whatever 
he received from the King and the English Parliament. 

That night there was not a dream winked in all the 
ship, we thinking how we had made the great southern 
continent. Mr M^Farlane said, it is true, very little, 
but it was easy to be seen that he had big thoughts 
in his head, for he walked by himself with the most 
saucy stability, evidently crowing that he was now 
among navigators, being the first who had seen land 
over the starboard bow, where no one had ever ex* 
pected it substantially to be ; but his 'minations 
were small craft, compared to those of others. One 
of the boys. Bill Oakum by name, enquired at me, 
^< If the stones on the shore would not be aU wedges 
of solid gold?" 

At daylight we hoisted out the jolly-boat, and I 
sent M^Farlane, with four smart hands, on a splori- 
fication. After being several hours non inventure, as 
the lawyers say, he came back as if he had a ring in 
the snout, and said, he could by no manner of means 


find a landing-place. Says he, <^ Yon rocks are all 
coal, with black mountains atop, as you have seen 
broken bottles guarding, like old watchmen, a wall.'* 

On hearing this, I 'plied, — 

" Then, as soon as stay 'nother night in this hood- 
winked place, I'd Ught my Havannah at the Pole star ; 
for, if the cliffs be, as you say, 'pendic'lous, by all 
the ropes in the ship, we are in a jeopardy enough to 
make a man say his prayers. So, up anchor, and bear 
away I keeping to the west, with the land on the lar- 
board, till we find a legion where we may anchor." 

I had scarcely said this when the ship was a-tra- 
veiling and steering close in-shore. We had a plea- 
sant view of the coast, but it was, I must allow, of a 
niggerous phys'onomy. At last, in the afternoon, we 
came to an inlet, which gushetted far into the interior. 
We steered into it, and 'served that the high moun- 
tains were only a screenage to the land from the sea, 
and that all within was very fertile and beautiful to 
behold, with trees at a gentlemanly distance from each 

We had not looked long till Mr M*Farlane 'tect- 
ed that the trees were not of a Christian kind, heiag 


all like huge broom^besoms without leaves, and as 
flexible as any thing in the wind, stooping down with 
Skparkz vousj when it blew hard, and brushing the 
ground like a 'tensil in the hands of a help, 

.When we had sailed up this gulf, some forty miles, 
we came to anchor in a beautiful basin. It was like a 
bowl, and it was calm — green grass grew to the shore, 
and Mr M^Farlane said, that ^* we were like Adam 
and Eve in the Garden of Eden, only there were 
them lanky trees, which were no better in his opinion 
than a miracle." 

Nothing very 'tic'lar happened that night, for every 
soul was dispirited with the talkative watch that all 
Iiands had kept the night 'fore. Even Mr M^Far- 
lane was 'citum, but in his sleep he remembered his 
'scovery ; and once he dreamt that he saw King George, 
but that was in his sleep, who said, that he had not 
'scovered Terra 'Cognity. Saving this dormant 'tro- 
versy, nothing special came to pass, but, by break of 
day, all hands were stirring, and Mr M^Farlane sought 
leave again to go on shore, to 'certain whether or no 
the country was habited. 

I, of course, 'sented, And. making all handy with 


breakfast, lie embarked with picked hands to p'ram^ 
biilate the country, 

I saw with some 'xiety the boat depart firom the 
ship's side, thinking what he would do if the natives 
were Ingees, or maybe Giants, for I had heard of the 
giants in Patagony, and of the 'Clops that were long 
ago with 'Lysses at the siege of Troy, which lasted 
ten years. 

As the boat 'proached the shore, we saw from the 
deck a terrible splashing in the water, which could 
not be 'terpreted, and presently, Mr M^Farlane, 
leaping ashore and smashing the sea with a boat- 
hook, a phynomenon, which Hydra H. Spencer the 
schoolmaster would have been puzzled to 'splain, and 
had it not been more for one thmg than another, I 
would have lowered the other boat and 'spected my* 
self the cause of the 'fusion ; however, the hobble- 
ment did not last long, and the mate, with the men, 
haying hauled up the boat on the green grass, went 
into the 'tenor, and we soon lost sight of them, 
bekase of them broom trees whereof I've made men^ 

While M^Farlane and the men were not in espst- 


ence to the naked eye, I had my own fears, for cer- 
tainly it was very venturesome to go arwandering up 
and down in a land which we had no 'cumstance to 
prove was Terra 'Cognity, but I kept a sharp look- 
out, and sent Bill Oakum to the mast-head to see, if 
he could, which way they went. 

The boy had not been there two glasses when he 
cried down in a great fluster that he couldn't 'stin^- 
guish a soul, but that there were five honeymiUs atop 
of a hill, all dancing a jig and spinning round about 
like peeries, which he 'sposed was the mate and other 
hands for joy, having found a gold mine. 

This 'telligence of the 'splorers eased my mind to a 
degree, having no other account. Howsomever, it 
came to pass, after they had been 'clipsed several 
hours, that all hands being on deck, cried out at 
once, <^ Yonder comes the mate and his gang, flying 
for dear life." 

We were all in a 'stemation, when we saw they 
were not pursued by Ingees, or walking steeples, as 
giants must be, but a comical species of natives of the 
shape of Turkeys, only much bigger ; as big as milk 
creetres, with one leg. The sight was most 'larming, 


when they drew near to where the boat was lying, 
high and dry, for we then saw that them birds had 
bills as long as a 'pottecary's, and that at the end was 
a circularity as large as a frying-pan. 

Mr M^Farlane, on reaching the boat, with the 
other men, stood 'ghast for a moment, and then all 
hands, arming themselves with the oars, faced the 
fowls in a 'fensive and 'tumacious manner; at the 
same time we beheld a dreadful splutter about the 
boat, and presently some sort of creetres that had 
rested in her in their absence, made a terrible to-do 
in running ^nd scattering themselves into the water. 
This was very mystical, and I was out in my reckon- 
ing ; for while the ^late and the men were standing 
cap-a-pie, with oars in their hands to 'fend themselves, 
lest the frying-pan bills should gobble them up, the 
creetres came within ten yards of them, and looked 
at them, not, you may be sure, with eyes of pity. 

After some time, I saw the mate hold out his hand 
very politely towards one of them, and by and by 
he patted it on the head, which showed that they had 
an instinct for familiarity. Then the oars were laid 
down, and the men turned to the boat ; but presently 


We discerned by their 'flections, that the honeyndlb 
which had taken possession of the boat, had eaten 
up nearly all the prog left in her. 

By this time I need not tell the 'credulous reader 
that we had, on board the ship, got the other boat 
lowered down and manned— so with her I went idy- 
self to see what was a*doing with them 'normotrd 
poultry on the shore. Mr M^Farlane seeing m 
coming, shouted aloud, and you might have 'tected 
that the half of his cry was made up of laughter, 
which was good cheer ; indeed there could be no 
doubt that we had 'scovered the land of Terra 'Cog- 
nity, for there was not in it a 'dividual thing Uke 
them of the Old World. 

" Captain," said Mr M^Farlane, as I landed, " the 
first oracle we met with as we came on shore, wasa 
large flock of salt-water frogs, and they must have 
been bull-frogs too, sitting conversing on the shore. 
By Jupiter I they were as big as turtles I We thought 
to catch some of them by braining them, to make 
specimens, but they jumped away into the deep 
water. Then we went up the Country. Siich a 

VOL. ir. a 


country t If I had it near the London Docks in 
Wapping, it would be a fortune. It is all of the most 
fertile nature. The daisies are as big as tea-saucerS| 
and the yellow knob in the middle is like half an 
prange ; but it is not big daisies that make good land, 
but something else. As, however, we went along, 
we came to a cliff that was either crystal or ice ; 
to make sure which, I resolved to taste it, when them 
there crippling fowls hove in sight, which made us 
take to our heels, and they pursued us, although they 
have, as you see, but one leg, no toes at all, and a 
shank like an upright marlinspike, with which they 
hop along in the most lampagious manner. As for 
their frying-pan 'bosces, they are more wonderful than 
their marlinspike legs, for if you hold out your hand 
to them, they lift a thing like the lid of a copper, and 
receive their meat, as it were, in a snuff-box, in the 
most rational manner." 

With that, Mr M'Farlane held out his finger to 
one of them, which was slily winking near him, and 
sure enough, like a pot-lid, up flew the cover of the 
round end of its bill, and then there appeared in th^ 
inside something like a tongue of a pimple shape. 


and round about it a 'rcumbendibus of teeth. Mr 
M^Farlane, pleased with the confidential bird, put io 
his finger, and instantly the lid closed^ and he gave a 
loud shriek of anguish, not being able to withdraw his 
hand from the 'rifice ; but it was, after all, a roguish 
bird, and had a relish for jocularity, for in the same- 
moment that it snapped the mate's finger, it gave a 
cunning wink to the other sailors, which set them all 
a-laughing, a piece of extravagance that Mr M^Far^ 
lane could not abide. However, the creetre, or as 
one of the sailors called it, the M^Farlane chicken, 
'pectorated his finger, thereby showing that it wi» 
a very good-natured quadruped. 

Mr M^Farlane then said that it would be as good 
as a whale to catch one of them, and carry it on board 
the ship, for a show to London ; but the birds, as if 
they understood English, all ran away, polling along 
as cleverly as cripples with a stilt, and we were obliged 
to come off to the ship that afternoon, without having 
obtained any sort of 'testification of the fact that we 
had been on the Southern Continent. 

After going on board, Mr M^Farlane and I had a 
glass of grog, and some good talk about Terra 'Cog- 


nity, resolving next morning to weigh anchor and 
'splore the inlet, being convinced by the brackish 
taste of the water, that we had anchored the ship ia 
llie frith of a navigable river. Then the mate wrote 
out his log, stating the particulars of what he had 
seen in the course of the day, and the watch being 
set, we turned in for the night. 

Next morning all hands were as merry as cock- 
roaches for 'scoveries, and the anchor was soon 
raised ; but when it was about a fathom or so of com- 
ing out of the water, we felt something tug at it, and 
all the ship shudder again. Presently, as if the anchor 
had been a hook in the nose of a leviathan, the ship was 
dragged by some unknown fish at such a rate up the 
g^l^ that a ninny would not have thought of setting 
a stitch of sail. How hx the monster pulled us 
along, it is not for me to aver ; but if it was not 20 
leagues, there can be no doubt of its having been at 
least a long way. 

At this juncture, the fish, for I suppose it was of 
that gender, which had us in tow, somehow got clear 
of the anchor, probably by hawking it out of its 
throat; but not to owell on 'portant partic'larsy 


the ship, which was then going thro' the water like a 
bird in the air, hiy to, smack I as if the breeze had 
had suddenly snapped, but nothing was so handsome 
as the land about where this happened, and we saw 
ourselves in a spacious river, the water of which was 
as fresh as any creek in Connecticut; indeed, I 
never saw such a conciliatory country, for as we were 
looking about on the landscape, we saw a number of 
blue birds sitting on the trees, holding a talk, parrot- 
CBtthion^ concerning our ship, which, considering all 
things, it could not be 'pected that they could 
think was any other than a creetre of the element* 

When we had moored the vessel, I had a 'sulta- 
tion with Mr M^Farlane, concerning the Southern 
Continent, into the heart of whicK we had cbme, 
because my orders were to fish for seals and whales, 
and did not contain a syllable about Continental 
affairs. To this Mr M^Farlane made a very cogent 
remark — ^namely, how could we help 'scovering 
another world; lying, as it did, in our way ; adding, 
that it was clear by the &ct, that we were not iii sL 
course for fidling in with either seals or whales, and 
yet we had steered a south-west course. 


From this very solid remark of the mate's, my 
scruples were much shaken, for as Mr M'Farlane 
farther justly 'served, it was not every day that the 
steadiest seman 'scovered a Continent. Thus, it came 
to pass, that we 'solved to 'splorify the country. 
Accordingly, we landed on the banks of the Arrow-* 
chur, as Mr M'Farlane called the river, in compli* 
inent to the M'Farlane land in Scotland ; but after 
searching some time, beating every bush, we saw it 
would be tedious work to 'spect the whole Continent 
in this partic'lar manner, so we agreed that at first we 
should only look at specialties, but the whole of the 
first day we met with nothing to make a gossip ask 
for a drink at a christening. So, in the evening, we 
sat down on a bank, where we calculated to spend 
the night, for it was a first quality place ; the grass 
was short, and as there was much driftwood in the 
river at hand, we 'solved to make a fire. 

About an hour after sun-down, we had collected 
enough of the drift-wood to serve for the night. Not 
being botanists, for we had come a-whaling, and not 
on a scientific purpose, none of us knew that the drift- 


wood was not common drift-wood, but our 'Uterate 
ignorance was soon corrected. 

At first Mr M'Farlane thought it but right to 
kindle a temperance fire, which he did with small 
pieces; — sometimes, to be sure,a bit was now and then 
rather lively with its crackling, but upon the whole, 
it burned very 'thodically. Among the wood, how- 
ever, which we had gathered, were several large 
pieces, and when the fire began to be mature, Mr 
M^Farlane laid one of them on, just as a man would 
place a stick on a common fire. Scarcely, however, 
was it well warmed, when it began to twist about, 
and to put itself into such postures, that we all 
thought it was not a stick, but some living kind of 
shapeless snake; and we were all, in consequence, 
jnuch 'fraid, 

. Mr M^Farlane was the first who recovered his 
senses, and with another stick of the same kind, he 
turned over, the piece he had laid upon the fire, 
but no sooner had he done so, than the uneasy stick 
became 'gnited, and with the 'nergy of a squib, 
flew at his bosom and left side, meandering like a 


fiery serpent, till in one of its whirlings it sprang 
into the river, and was 'stinguished. 

This odd 'eurrence made us all very *ivacious, 
shouting with glee, and laughing loud — only Mr 
M*Farlane justly 'marked, that he had never seen 
any firewood half so sprightly before, even when 
brightly blazing. 

Saving the fire-wood 'sploit, we met with no 
adventures that night, which we passed in a benign 
manner, but well do I remember it was such a night 
as would have made the most starry of our northern 
nocturnals blush. Not a breath of air was stirring, 
and the great river on whose green banks we were 
slumbering, rippled along with a pleasing singing 
sound, that seemed almost musical ; and not far off, a 
large bird, like a milk-white dove, perched itself oh il 
tree, performed the part of a nightingale, so mel- 
lowly that the very planets in the still blue sky re- 
frained twinkling their eyelids to listen. The ittat^ 
gave it a pretty name, calling it ** the Damsel." 

At last the dawn began to turn the heavens ihtb 
morning, and having shaken ourselves we proceeded, 


as the dawn brightened, along the banks of the river ; 
* the broom-looking trees 'ecame rarer as we Vjsoicedy 
and here and there we saw a kind somewhat like large 
gooseberry bushes, the fruit on which were as big as 
New Town pippins. But there was no vestige of 
man ; the only citizens we met with were birds of the 
air, and they were not at all like civilized birdsy 
'ticularly a kind that seemed a cross breed befrween 
'the kangaroo and the penguin, only they were web- 
footed, and, besides wings, had short alligator fore- 
legs, and walked upright. 

At first, these and all the birds we fell in with 
seemed very 'nocent iemd docile, but they soon gave 
us to understand that they had tempers of their own ; 
for Mr M^Farlane, triumphing with the thought, that 
all the land was his own, went towards one of those 
birds, and began to make free with it. 

For some time they relished his kindness, and 
looked as pleased as a nigger wench with a. glass 4>f 
cherry bounce in her hand ; but' presently he,, not 
knowing what he did, attempted to tickip it. My 
eye I what a passion it flew into ! It struck the poor 
mate with its short stumpy fore-paws-^he ran— it 



ebased — something tripped him up — be fell forward 
—-it got OB his ba^k^ and dabbled him like 'spera- 
tiaii^4ie loee with difficulty, and &ci&g round, gave 
it a puBeh in the fitcNBOAch, which made it stagger 
ba^waids* la a momeat, howerer^ it rallied^ aad 
being by thi» time furious, rushed to the charge, and 
so plied its web-footed fore-feet, that, though at ficst 
every one was like to split with laughtear, the fowl 
became so victorious, that we were obliged to 'ter- 
fere, and Mr M^Fariane was fwnd so handled that 
he wept like a maiden, declaring that he would aist 
go further into a country infested with such vipers, 
diough every hill were a precious stone. We tiiad 
to persuade him, but he was as 'stiitate as cast 
metalft and all hands ware in the end obliged Ao 
return to the ship and ces^me our natural whaJing'. 
But that we had seen tike Gbreat Southern Contuient, 
not one of us who was there doubted; indeed, for 
many a day after, Mr M^Farlane^s left chedk bote 
flmjo. Qf several scratches of the nKwt 'tentous 
Iscription, received hi his conflict widi the bird, 
nerer afterwards speaking of the cre^tre by any odi«r 
I tbm << TV Bandy." 

[ J9S ] 


To tie hearty time of ** The Zm^im Bt§gcr2* 

The rose it is blusUng, 

The lily looks pale. 
But snules of a true love 
Unfold a glad tale* 
And a wooiBg' we will go, we*U go, we'U go. 
And a wooing we will go. 

'Tis of a fond passiott 

Tlie rose never knew. 
And tears of the Kly 

At best are bttt dew. 

And a wooing we will go, &c. 

The jocund. 

The sunshine is bright. 
And stars, as we travel, 

Are friends in the night. 

And a wooing we will go, &c. 

But summer and sunshine. 

And stars in the skies. 
Are dull to the spirit 

That beams in her eyes. 

And a wooing we will go^ &c. 

[ 196 ] 


lYords! words I words!— Shaksfsark. 

Sometimes I think the English are not very cor- 
rect theoretical metaphysicians. Their Locke wrote 
a book about what nobody doubted, and which has 
still a very high unread reputation. Had he thought 
for a moment that we could not be bom into the 
wodd with the ideas of things of the world, he 
would have seen at once the uselessness of all his 
acumen. The attempt can only be regarded as an 
ingenious endeavour to prove the non-existence of 

But the essay on the Human Understanding dis- 
plays extraordinary powers of mind ; and because it 
does so, it is therefore imagined that it must be a 
superior work. Who, however, reads it ? It is found, 
BO doubt, in every well-furnished library; even in 
the gayest, there are no books of more unsullied gild- 
ing than Locke's Works. It has been now long. 


Iiowever, asleep, and is rolling with easy wheels into 

I am the more glad of this, as I think the meta* 
physical lore of Locke has been the parent of a 
rickety philosophy. I do not, howeve-, dispute his 
talent, but its application; he was, undoubtedly, a 
man of a cogitative genius, but it is no uncommon 
thing for men of that stamp tko be thriftless. 

Of all the errors, however, which I impute to the 
reflections of that great man, is the unsatisfactory 
state in which he has left us to grope in matters con* 
nected with the doctrine of necessity ; in so much that 
I am disposed to think, when I happen to be on good 
terms with myself, that he really did not know very 
clearly what he was writing about ; at least he seems 
almost entirely to have forgotten that man is as much 
a creature of impulses as of motives, by supposing 
that the one, more than the other, has to do with in- 
nate ideas. He might just as well have imagined 
that the magnet moved towards iron in consequence 
of volition, or the leaden bullet shot out of a pistol 
could have no effect on an Irishman, or any other of 
God's creatures. The bullet takes effect, so shot ; and 


is an animal wiidk ia both dxawn and pio- 
pelled — ^both a thing of impulses and of motives; and 
<zpenenee of myself kaiis me to suspect, tliat as 
tjhe power of impulse or of motive predominates, the 
patient belongs either to the active class by nvitom 
the world is modified, the instruments of Providence, 
Off to that othmr class who fonn the passive stratum of 
society. Impulse is, as it were, an element equivft- 
lent to that quality which urges things cox; motive 
draws things after. The effects are um3ar» but the 
2^g^ts act differentiy* 

Now, although this cannot be doubted, I am not 
sure if its existence as a truth has ever been properly 
noticed, or the ins^ht it is calculated to afford of the 
system of Providence, or of the difference to which it 
iiay guide us in our estimate of the effects of actions 
on society* 

Motives clearly imply choice, and a man maybe hekt 
responsible for the effects of motives which he chooses 
to allow to actuate his conduct ; but the case is differ* 
€0t with impulses* He has no choice — he must go 
ca as the impulse directs him, and, in consequence^ 


otE^fi^ B<^ to be helA tefPpmmibU Soft the effsctt of 
actiom tkat lie caimoi cliooBe bat perfarBi. 

We see ereiy day aromid m men who axe infiueii- 
oed by impulseB wludi th^ cmnot oontrol^ who are 
dxiven into new cinmnistances by what is catted good 
or bad luck, witfaont any exercise of their own £i- 
ccdties, nay, often against the conclusions of their 
naderstandings ; and others, who are eqnally tub* 
joct to the dictates of reason. With the one, tbepro- 
pdi»on of impnise predominates! and with the odier^ 
the attraction of motires. Indeed, without motives^ 
we caimot see the use of fear in the moral world ; and 
if there be not impulse, what is the use of passion ? 

Men who are swayed by imptdse moffe than mo- 
tive, seem to be those who are ordained to aeeomplish 
change in the system of the world ; and those whoy 
in like manner, obey motive more than impulse, seem 
to be conservatives. The latter appreciate the value 
of what exists,, the form^ call new tMngs into ex-* 

Besides, is it not an atheistical doctrine to iK^me 
that there h not such a power in the moral world as 
thtt of impulse ? How, indeed, could there have been 


a first moral or physical motion without an impulse ? 
and does ngty therefore, the acknowledgment of im- ; 
pulse imply a belief in the existence of a first cause ? 

It may, however, be said, that the acknowledg- . 
ment of the power of motives, or of the power of im- , 
pulse, is . enough — ^we do not require both ; but this . 
is not just. In the physical operations of the uni- » 
verde, there must ,have been impulse given; and the 
very law of attraction shpws, if there did not exist 
the countervailing power of impulse, that all things, ; 
with accelerated forces, would be drawn into one mass. . 
On the contrary, we everywhere see impulse, like a - 
wedge, inserting itself among the atoms of things, as : 
if it . were ^^^^ something which keeps every thing 
progressive, and which makes the minutest particle .- 
the seed of the greatest production. Who can teU . 
what glorious .creature may hereafter be developed 
from the intermingled materials of the vilest vermin ; 
just as the worms of the grave spring from the re- 
mains of man, and the maggots that have their being . 
in his organization ? 

We are finite, the universe is infinite, and there- 
fore we can only comprehend or understand a part of 


it; and yet vfith a hankering to make ourselves gods, 
like the builders of Babel, we class all things under 
one general head for each kind, while we see that 
Nature deals only with individuals. Linnaeus, in at- 
tempting his classifications, made an art, not a science ; 
forgetting, that if there could be two things exactly 
alike in nature, there would be necessarily an end of 
infinitude. Much eiToneous reasoning with respect 
to the laws of nature, as they are called, arises from 
thinking she regulates herself by general laws. She 
recognises no such thing — ^she makes every apparently 
similar leaf different ; and, in consequence, for every 
one she has a different law. The difference may not 
be great, but still it is a difference ; and therefore the 
inference deducible from this is, according to nature, 
that although man is under the influence of motives 
and impulses, yet every man is under his own par- 
ticular class of rules ; and that what we apply to the 
species, is only deduced as applicable to them, because 
of some general resemblance which induces us to 
overlook the individuality. In a word, though man- 
kind may be divided into creatures of impulse and of 
motive, they are, each and all, under some law, dif- 
ferent in every individual. 

• [ 202 ] 


To the tune of " The Boatman^ 

** But when my Peggy singB with itreeter sldl]. 
The ' Boatman,' or the * Lass of Patie*s Mill.' '* 

Th* GeaileSh^henL 

Oh, sweetly breathes the summer rose, 

When evening gales are sighing. 
And dewy daiaes droop and close. 

And kindling stars are Tyingf 
But frs^rant flowers, in twilight hotm^ 

When stars their lights uncover, 
Ne'er charm'd to flight the weary nighty 

That held a faithful lover. 

Oh Time, why art thou tedious still ? 

Run as the stream is flowing — 
For yet behind the eastern hill 

The lingering moon is glowing. 
Speed thee, dull lights and banish night. 

That makes my trueJove tarry — ' 
I hear a stir — ah, it is her-*-^ 

My Mary — oh, my Mary I 

EniKBUBGB, July 19> 1834« 

[ 203 ] 


The earliest account that I have met with of bilk 
of exdiaoge, is in the year 1189, when the Emperor 
Frederick Barbarossa cmifirmed a charter of privi- 
ties to the city of Hamburg, and, among otheiB, 
gare the inhabitants liberty to negotiate money by 
ezdiange, — a priyilege which shows that Hamburgh 
most then have been a considerable place of trade,, 
because bills of exchange were then very new in 
Europe, and only used in the most considerable com- 
mercial cities. When they were invented is not pre- 
cisely known, but in 1229, it is said that the Ghibe- 
lines, whaEi driven out of Italy by the Guelphs, and 
settled at Amsterdam, were the inventors of re^z- 
dange on bills of exchax^e, on account of the 
damage and diarges to which they were put, and the 
interest of protested bills which had been given to 
them for dfeets they had been obliged to leave in 


In the year 1307, King Edward I. of England 
appears to have understood the machinery of bills of 
exchange, in one sense, exceedingly well. The Pope, 
by his nuncio at that time, had collected much money 
in England, but the king laid his injunctions on him, 
that neither the English coin nor silver in plate nor 
in bullion should be carried out of the kingdom to 
his Holiness, but that the sums raised should be de- 
livered to merchants in England, to be remitted to 
the Pope by way of exchange. In a commeixjial 
point of view, the king's prohibition made, however, 
no important difference ; but the incident shows that 
trafficking by bills of exchange was then well known. 
In the observations which Anderson in his " History 
of Commerce" malces on this point I do not entirely 
agree, for he has neglected to state what the rate of 
exchange was; and we are not sure* whether the' 
measure enforced by the king was or was not pro- 
fitable to the country. It is quite evident, that if a 
rate of exchange was deducted from the amount to 
be remitted to Rome, the king's measure was na- 
tionally a very good one, and that it saved so much 
money from being taken out of the country. 


In 1381, an act of Parliament was passed, by Mrhich 

it was made lawfal, ^^ that no merchants, nor any others 

.whatever, shall carry or send any gold or silver in 

money, hnUion, plate, or vessels, neither by etchanges 

io be made, nor in. other manner, but they shall only 

make exchanges in England of those payments alone, 

and that by good and sufficient merchants, to be paid 

beyond the seas, after first obtaining special license 

.of the king, as well for the exchangers as the persona 

that ought to make the payments, and specifying the 

sums to be exchanged." What particular motive 

induced the enactment of this law, is not now easily 

ascertained, but it would seem that it had for its 

object the exportation of English staples, to prevent 

money and the precious metals from being sent out 

of the country. 

In 1698, it was enacted, that all bills of exchange 
drawn in England, for five pounds or upwards, to any 
other place in England, and payable at a certam 
number of days, weeks, or months, after date, should^ 
from and after presentation and acceptance, which 
acceptance shall be ^^ by the underwriting the same 
under the party's hand so accepting, and after the 


expiration of tliiee dajps after tbe said biU shall be- 
come due, the party to whom the said bili is made 
payable, his servant, agents, or assigns, may, mid 
shall eanse ibe said biU to be protested,'' &e. 

This is, I believe, the first law by wbkh ike me- 
thod of protesting inland bills of exdkange was pxe- 

In 1704, by a statute of Qneen Amie, ponssovy 
. notes were m^de ass»gnable by indorsement, and, what 
had lutherto been m^ected, inland bills nught be 
protested for non-acceptance. And in 17M, it was 
enacted, ^^ that persons convicted of forging, altering, 
car counterfeiting the acceptance of any bill of eat- 
chan^, &c., shall suffer death as a felon." 

This may be considered as coo^eting the history 
of this species of voucher ; for any imjH'ovements thit 
have been made since, are mcoe of die nature of 
legal addenda, than alterati(»is which have changed 
the nature of the document. I do not presume to 
instruct lawyers on this head, but only to give mer- 
chants sometlmig like an ou^e of the l^ory of 
Bffls of Exchange, 


[ 207 ] 


The tear on Mary's cheeks, the sigh 

That heaves her gentle breast, 
Betoken Lore within her heart 

Has fondly built a nest. 
But, ah I that sigh, which, without won^ 

To hope of rapture speaks, — 
The dewdrops on that blushing rose. 

That pity on her cheeks, 

Are not for me — 
Are not forme! 

Another claims the golden prize — 

I can but fortune blame ; 
J£ she be happier with that youth. 

My bliss should be the same. 
Life had no charm but when I dieamt 

Her happiness was mine ; 

2G8 A SONG. 

But if another dearer prove, 
To sorrow and repine 

Is not for me— 
Is not for me I 

The all of life was that sweet maid; 
An insect in the light, 

I liv*d for her — the beam withdrawn, 
I droop forlorn in liight : 

Why am I not content ? oh ! why- 
Still of my stars complain ? 

If she be happier with that youth, 
Why should I feel this pain? 
It cannot be — 
It cannot be! 

[ 209 ] 


I WAS led to investigate the history of Sugar by ' 
a casual remark of the late. Sir Joseph Banks one 
day at break&st. ' I foi^et now how the conver- 
sation arose, but he enquired if I had met with any ' 
of the remains of the sugar-cane in Sicily, mention* ' 
ing that it had been previously produced in the island 
of Crete, but the sugar manufactured in that island 
was more crystallized than burs, and was called, 
from the place where it was boiled, sugar of Candi, 
otherwise sugar Candy, and it seems to have been 
never prepared better there than in that form* 

It is certain, /however, that in the year 1148 con- 
siderable quantities of the article were produced in ^ 
the island of Sicily, and the Venetians traded in it 
to the ports of the ocean,' as well as with the sugars 
of Egypt," and what was* brought thither from India 
by the Red Sea; but I have xnet'with no evidence 
to support the' Es^i de FHistoire du ' Commerce^ in 

VOL. II. s 


Trhich the author says that the Saracens brought the 
sugar-cane from India to Sicily. 

^' The andeat Greeks and Romans," saysDr Wil- 
liam Douglas, ** used honey only for sweetening." 
And Paulus ^gineta, who calls it cane honey, says 
it caDne originally firoitt Chixmy by the East Indies 
aad Arabia,, into Eurc^.. Salmatias si^s,. however,, 
tlo^ it had been used in Arabia nine hatred ye£^& 
befinre* But it i& oertaia that sugar was only used 
IB eywnfs, Goimerves^ and sodi like Arabian medicinal 
Gfmpositibns, wiieik it was first introduoed into tbe 
vMSt of Europe ^ but Mr Wooton, in his; Reflectioii» 
vfon Andent aad Modem Learnings says that die 
sugar-cane wa& not andently imknown, siaee it grows 
mAasaHy in Arabia and Indostan ; but 90< little warn 
the old wedd acquainted w^ its ddidotis juie^ that 
*' some of the able^ mea," says he, <^ doobted wiie- 
tbr it wbere a dew Ske manna, or die juiee of the^^ 
plant itacif.'^ It is, howeTer, certain, liial ranr fm^g 
was used m £t»ope be&re the diseorery of Amesica. 
Henera^the AmeErican hi8toria% dbsewes, that si^|ar 
fgnm- fiMcmedy iia Vakneii^ broaght tidth^ by^ the 


afterwards to the Canary islands, and lastly, to the 
Spanish West Indies. 

Abont the year 1419, the Portuguese planted the 
ii^nd of Madeira mth sugar-canes from Sicily; and 
Grioyanni Batero, in an English translation of his 
book in 1606, on the Causes of the Magnificence and 
Grandeur of Citks, mentions the excellence ot the 
sugar-cane of Madeh^, from which it was trancqported 
t» the West Indies ; and there can be no doubt that 
Madeira was one of the first islands of the Atlantic 
Ocean in which this important article was earBest 

In 1503 two ships ariyed at Campvere, laden with 
sagar from the Canary Isles. As yet, it is said, no' 
sugar-canes- were produced in America, but soon they 
were ti-ansphnted from those islands to the Brazfls. 

It was about this time (1563) that the art of 
refining sugar was discorered by a Venetian, who i* 
said to have realized a hundred thousand crowns by* 
Ifie invention. Our ancestors made use of it as it came 
m jtrfce from Ifie canes^ but most conmwMily usee? 
loney m prrference. 

Root Ae" VmzSs' tso^ ihcr C^narfes* stxgst^tdssxM 


were brought and planted in the island of His- • 
paniola, and in the same year sugar was brought 
from the Brazils into Europe. The commodity was 
then very dear, and only used on rare occasions, - 
honey being till then the general ingredient for 
sweetening of meats and drinks. 

When sugar was introduced into this country first, 
is doubtful; but in 1526 it was imported from St 
Luear, in Spain, by certain merchants of Bristol, who 
brought the article which had been imported there 
from the Canary Islands. 

In the year 1641, the sugar-cane was imported from 
the Brazils iQto Barbadoes, and being found to thrive, 
3ugar mills were established. A Colonel James 
Daax, who began the cultivation with about three 
hundred pounds, declared that he would never return 
»to England till he had made ten thousand a-year; 
;aiid Colonel Thomas Modyford was still higher in 
his expectations. 

It was from the island of Barbadoes that the slave 
trade began. The first planters finding such immense 
profit, induced the merchants at home to send ships 
with assorted cargoes for the products of the island; 


but they found it impoflsible to manage the cuItiYa- 
tion of sugar by white people in so hot a climate. 
The example of the Portuguese gave birth to the 
Negro slave ^trade, and it flourished till abolished by 
Act of Parliament ; but in that age it was a most 
flourishing business, and the ports of London and 
Bristol had the main supply. Barbadoes, in the year 
1659, attained its utmost pitch of prosperity. In a 
pamphlet, entitled, " Trade Revived," it is spoken of as 
*^ having given to many men of low degree, vast for- 
tunes, equal to noblemen ; that upwards of a hun- 
dred sail of ships there yearly find employment, by 
carrying goods and passengers thither, and bringing 
thence other commodities, whereby seamen are bred, 
and custom increased, our commodities vended, and 
many thousands employed therein, and in refining 
our sugar at home, which we formerly had from other 

In 1670, our sugar colonies drew the means of 
support from what were then our North American 
colonies, particularly New York, Pennsylvania, and 
the Jerseys ; and the first time that sugar was made 
subject to taxation at home, was in the year 1685. 


like other m^chandiae, h was previoittly subject to 
afire per eest poundage^ 

In 1739, the importatioa of sugars from the West 
LicUa island was so great,^ that there^was a relaac»» 
of eur colonial poMcy towards then ; aad tbey* 
permitted to carry their sugars directly to aaiy 
pezt south of Cape Fmistare, without being oUiged 
to land them first in Great Britain. From iMs time 
si^ar has continued to increase, and it is needless* 
to pursue its history ferther ; it was then a great 
artide of trade, and> as an ingrediexit, the eonsc^p-- 
tkni has been continually increamng. Whether die 
cultivation has exceeded the wants of tl^ commereial 
world, or tiiat the new colonies have beenfeundni»fe 
fertile than the did, I eanuet pretend to say ; but i^ 
this nu»nent the proprietors of the sugar estates are 
snffimng at all haacte, and their greatest ealamty ii^ 
not the emancipation of their slaves. 

[ 215 ] 


And is it you, and are ye come ? 
Sit down, sit down in bye ; 
Get up and pierce the bowie» Kate, 
This night we'll drink it dry. 

Bid in the neebors, young and auld. 
Aft &it as ye can ringe^ 
And mak a tsasal on the lomOf 
O' a' the biggest binge. 

Gie me your han', my winsome freer, 
Hecby sirsy I sadly trow — 
Foy, ripe the riba £rae lug^ to lug^ 
And pack the chnmla fa « 

Where has the glaikit Laithron flown ? 
Fling- on her rock an* wheel; 
To hae this night sae Uetrt &iqpiink^ 
Gude spin hear to tbe d»l} 


Come, tell's the ferlies ye have seen ; 
Och, but you're croint an' wan, — 
But here comes Meg, the miller's wife. 
And that's auld aunty Anne* 

Jock Aikin too, as douce as aye, 
He's now a muslin weaver ; 
Poor lad ! his bread has sairly fail't. 
And there's Rab Dock the shaver. 

Come, Saunders Clerk, what gars ye scog ? 
Ye need tak no such fleetchings — 
His dochter Bess, a. sonsy lass, 
Has dwiu't since Anoch preachings. 

Ye'll mind auld Watty Walkinshaw — 
And that's Tam Eccles' sin — 
This is an oe o' Effie Grant's, 
They ca' her Jean M'Lean. 

Come ben. Will Ker— ye see he's grown 
A sturdy buirdly chijsl ; 
He married Bell JM^Kay in hairst, 
And's doing unco weel. 


Here's Mr Duff the elder, too, 
Sam Tod, and Mall Strathem — 
Hugh Nicholson, a strapping lad^ 
That ye left but a bairn* 

And there's the Dominie, wi's black 
Gamashins o'er his shoone ; 
His hoze are aye outo'er his breeks, 
His cockit hat's no dune. 

Be wi' us a', the worthy saint I 
We'll seat him neest yoursell, — 
The very minister is come, 
Altho' the night be snell. 

Ay, that's the gree, my canty Kate, 
To fetch blin' fiddler Tarn ; 
Cock up the bodie in the nook. 
And help about the dram. 

The weest wean the Clachan owns^ 

Shall keep the night in fame^ 

When he that was so far nwa^^ 

Retum'd to bide at ham^. 
Augmty 1804. 



Near the little silvan town of La Ville, Mon. Fil- 
pon resided with Matilda his daughter. He had 
come with her in the year 1750, when she was a girl 
of some eight or nine years cdd. Tfiey were tben in 
mourning for his- wife, asid they li?ed in gteeA sedu- 
'sion; but he was an amiaUe man^ though he kept 
himself much aloof, being addicted to his books;, and 
absorbed in the contemplation of some hypothetical 

At La ViUe we heard the simple tale which we are 
about to relate. A venerable old man guided us to what 
had been their habitation, as if to show us a sight 
that should be memorable, for aU the villagers were 
interested in the sCory, and deemed it eovM be no 
less affecting to evwy body else. 

The house was distant from La Ville only a short 
walk, and situated within the wood of *Verennes, but 


Ae spoi was nefvertheleas deligiitfully cheerful. TIm 
tbne iffas a fommer afterooon, and tlie tiees, tofUy 
stirred by the bxeathiiig air, twinkled theb leaeveft 
goHeoly ia the sandime. All arovnd was tan-* 
qwMtjj andfismr or five cews lay nuninaling en tW 
green, as if tfiey reflected on pfailosophicid Acones^ 
vlnle from a prattGng heook that ran merrily in Am 
Imllow, a trout now and dien glittered at it kaped 
seemingly in eertasy. 

In a corner of a little Tuwyard stood the eotli^tf^ 
The dooc and window dbeefcs wese micomamily seat 
and txindy ^vrintened ; xouad the bottom of the chinfr* 
n^ stack sevend peatt sparrows were gsdlanttng ami 
cUzping, and dte russet roof was as if it had beem 
reared by die mystical swaltows, that had built thmr 
own jutting donneiles under the eagres ; bnt die pie** 
ture of repose which the scene presented wouUL per- 
b^ liarei'been incomplete, had not a damsdl eome 
sbging fimn among the trees» with, a bright pifidber 
on. her head, iUed with cool delidous water^ broegjit 
fisam a woodland ^ring. Shegaily pkeed it to the 
gPKmnd tolodcai n% as we saiuitered oa &e gxeen^ 
aod 8e«&«C to enjoy something Uke a eenqplinsenf^ 


hy the pleasure with which she lifted llie pitcher and 
held it to my lips with a smile, when I asked her for 
a diink«. But to return to Hon. Filpon» 

Nothing was known of him in the village, hut 
only that he had come from Lille, where he had been 
Sr bookseller, much esteemed for his simplicity and 
worth, and celebrated for the curious volumes that 
he occasionally o£fered for sale, for he dealt chiefly in 
the vellum-bound tomes of alchymy, and the hierogly*- 
phical lore of the Teutonic astrologers* It was an 
iipinion among the conmion people that he had very 
nearly discovered the hidden art of making gold, and 
the firiars of St Mary's praised the abstemious seques-^ 
tration of his blameless life. The cur6 of La Ville 
told me, however, that he was an inexplicable man, 
pursuing his investigations with the assiduity of a 

I was much struck at the time with the object 
of Mon. Filpbn's studies, for I had never before 
heard that philosophers ever puzzled themsdvea 
about the nze of material things, nor of the science 
as the cui6 called it, of possible magnitudes, muck 
as I had been tokl of the infinite divisibili^ of mat-. 


ter. But although I co\M not at once accede to 
his dogmas, I have yet since become rather inclined 
to believe, that if <matter be infinitely divisible^ 
there can be no reason to deny to it immensity of 
size; nor that there may be within the realms of 
boundless space a globe, yea, numberless globes^ 
so vast that the earth which we inhabit would be on 
them no greater than as a grain of sand — as an arid 
particle of the deserts of Arabia and Africa, of which 
millions are disturbed at every tread by the cushion** 
footed cameU But this is not the place to mathe« 
matically examine the transcendental doctrines of 
Mon. Filpon* 

A short time before he came to La Ville he had 
lost his wife, the mother of Matilda^ a pale and 
patient woman, who was never obstreperous but when 
she called her poultry to pick, and even then her 
voice was melodious with benevolence. After her 
death he invited her nm^, Terese, to take chaise of 
his house and daughter, in order that he might pur* 
sue his researches unmolested by paternal or domestic 
cares* But Terese had only been installed a few 
days, when an English Milord came into his &hop» 

222 roim juxx^JNo^ 

«&d bought all Ids boolcfl, for wldeh lie paid hiia a 
sum tltaty in bis own estisnatioii, made liiiii rich 
heyood the dreams of ayaiioe. Indeed, it is well 
kaown on the eontineat, that theare are no mdb 
\mjen as Englishmen ; especially those who deal in 
old books, and images that might cogitate if they 
had imly heads* 

Sooa a£ter this godsend^ Mem. Filpon being 
liieieby a rich man, left Lille with his daughter, and 
erne to La ViUe, where he hired the cottage of 
Bdle Maison, whi<^ we have described^ confiding to 
Teoeie the diqK>sal of lUs paralytic chattels, directing- 
her to folbw him, for no business of the earth was. 
40W worthy of hk care, compared with his Ughly 
weful studies* 

When ensconced in the cottage, and the old wo> 
mn had airived, he abandoned himself to eniditioii ; 
so ^at Terese, who loved gossiping as a cordial, was 
jdlowed to do with Matilda and her leisure as she 
pleased. Thus it happened, that she was often seen 
wi& the pensive girl at h«r side, going towards La 
Yille, where she had bec(Mne acquainted with certain 
talkative old ladies, who loved to discourse etmasm-- 


img sk^iiis of silk and laoe from Vakndenn^ topici 
which, to old Terese» werfe as neoessaries of lile. 

fVhen five years had be^ spent in dis pastiaot^ it 
happened liiat T^!ese and Matilda, in one of their 
diurnal pedestrations, were overtaken with a showear, 
which all the farmers in the country had been i^ 
wards of a week praying for, and were in consequence 
oUiged to make what haste they could to save their 
iKmnets, by running to a neighbouring shed for 
shdter, where a stripling stood counting the rain^ 
ixof^ or seeming to do so, a task equally Important. 

Between him and Matilda the fluid of animal mag^ 
netbm reciprocally soon played visibly in their eyes, 
and Fate had business in the crisis. Adolph had^ 
tin that time, never seen a flower so &ir ; and Ma« 
tilda was informed by Terese, that he looked Uk^ 
what a good husband should do, while her own 
modest heart testified by flutters, that he was a 
handsomie young man. 

Hius th^ acquaintance b^an, and had not be** 
oome old, when a cuckoo told Adolph one afternoon, 
as he wi» meditating alone, that he would be an 
unlucky married man, which alarmed him So much 

22f , JfOOB APOLPH> 

that he went' immediately to Lille, and enlisted in a 
regii^ent destined for the West Indies. 

On the same day Men, Filpon was seized idth a 
fever, which carried him, on the fifth day, to Abraham's 
bosom— jjf philosophers consent to go there — and be* 
fore the interment, Adolph was in Dunkirk to be 
embarked for his destination, so that at least a tedious 
week passed ere the gentde Matilda could decently 
enqmre what had become of him« But misfortunes 
nevar cobie »ngly, afid she was destined to ta3te the 
|)itter of life. The aged Terese, so socially garrulous^ 
was suddenly smitten with a dumb palsy, and could 
only babble a jargon quite shocking to hear, inso-*^ 
much, that the 9weet-tempered Matilda had no other, 
alteliiative but to take up her abode in Lille, in a con* 
vent, wher0 thirteen sisters of charity resided. 

It was not her intention to become a nun, for she 
thought of Adolph, and sighed, wondering what dis* 
aster could have made him a soldier ; but her regrets 
wete. tempered with quietude, for she was of a mild 
i^ature, innocent as the lily, and timid as the lark. 
She, however. Waited, and expected, she knew bot 
what; but Time, though his chariot was on slow 

faon ij>0LPa# 225 

wheels, and his course smooth, proceeded on in his 
journey. At last one of the thirteen sisters lay down 
to die, and closed her eyes in a most resigned manner, 
leaving the other twelve with white handkerchie£i 
weeping round her bed, besides Mademoiselle Filpon, 
and two boarders. 

While the extreme unction was administering, the 
maternal sister chanced to glance her pious eyes on 
our heroine, and it instantly occurred tp her, as inspi- 
lation, that Matilda would make a nice nun, to sue- 
ceed the sister, who, by the by, departed this life 
while the ceremony was performing. Accordingly, 
when the host and consecrated paraphernalia were 
withdrawn, she spoke to Matilda, and urged so effec* 
taally her persuasion, that finally Mademoiselle be- 
came a novice, and ultimately an exemplary sister, 
distinguished not only for the meek paleness of her 
countenance, but the pathos of her mild blue eyes, 
which could only be properly described as visible 

There was, however, ^ cast of peculiar humanity 
in her charity. She was not conspicuous for her at- 
tentions to sick ladies ; in fitct, she eschewed them, as if 

S2S ^ooft AM^auna 

tbey had been really troublesome, prderring to casry 
tier merciful imnistraticnis to die hospitals of the gar* 
ikon, where she was often heaid to exdaim, when any 
of her patients died, which thejr sometimes did,--^ 
^' Poor Adolph !" What was the unuttefed remainder 
of the thought in her compassionate bosom, nobody 
ever ascertained ; but so uniformly did she exclidm, 
** Poor Adolph I" as she left the bedside of a dyii^ 
pati^it, that it at last became a common saying ia 
Ike mifitary hospital of Lille, when asoldiar was ine* 
ooverable, that he was a ** poor Adolph,** 

It is well known that the way of life \duch the 
ast^s of diarity pass, would be, to even very reasoiH 
able young ladies, tediously dull, notwithstanding the 
conscious beneficence of thdir actions, and the glasses 
of wine with which their fortitude is supported^ 

Day afiter day, and month after month, and year 
afiter year, rolled away with Matilda in the monc^ony 
of duty, and the sad expression of ** Poor Adolj^l'* 
so that she reached that stage of existence wlach is 
better known than described. 

At this time a regiment which had been quartered 
at Brest, after having returned from Martinique, was 

BDOK AftOLnC 227 

kito tiie gBxrifion of LQle. Many yean had 
gmae by since Ado^>h had sailed a soldier in ihe same 
fxnps. In all that long period, Matilda had never 
beard of Um, nor indeed would it have been cmnely 
in a sster of chanty to hare made any enquiry eon- 
ceming a handsome young man, for, except to the 
ails of humanity, exclusively for the hope hereafter of 
lieceiving a niaai£>ld reward, it is not die usage of 
file amiahlei members of the asterhood to allow them- 
adlves to think of young men. 

But although our demure, mild, and methodical 
&^oine, was strict in the observance of all die rules 
ef the order to whidi she belonged, diere was, never* 
theLeas, a little earthly sediment at the bottom oi the 
cdLestial purity of her bosom ; and her pathetic inter^- 
jection of ^ Poor Adolph I" as she left the couch of 
tfae dying soldiers, was not mere words of course, the 
dmne of habitude, as many supposed, but the expreSF* 
sion of an indescribable sorrow mingled with reoollec* 
tion, a sweetness of the memory, like the aroma that 
haunts the vase where the rose has been, insomuch, 
that in spite of heiself, a sentiment, pleasing as per* 
fume, oft^en visited her soft affections during the many 

228 ^OB ADOhPMm 

years in whieh Adolph was forgotten by all others but 
his mother, who never ceased to wonder what witch-* 
ery had induced him to become so suddenly a soldier. 

After the regiment had been several months in Lille, 
a messenger came firom the hospital to the nunneiy, 
requesting a sister might be sent to attend one of the 
men afflicted with a consuming malady, which had at 
last mastered his strength ; and Matilda, not having* at 
the time any particular engagement, for the season 
was unusually healthy, went with the messenger to- 
alleviate, if possible, the sufferings of the invalid* 

In going towards the hospital, the messenger, of 
his own accord — ^for the French, it is well known, are 
very talkative, and will speak their language as ^uently 
to you as if they were quite intelligible-^informed her 
that the soldier was a good man, though as tadtum 
as a cannon, save occasionally ; but that it was the 
opinion of his comrades he was sometimes not alto* 
gether in his sober senses, for he often spent his time 
in solitary promenades, and frequently, when he be* 
Ueved himself unheard, lay stretched on the glacis, and 
uttered ^^ Matilda !" in such a tone, that, as the man 
said, had he not been a veteran, it might have been 


thought He was a raw recroity touched with the tender 

I need not say that the sister of charity heard this 
story with, great emotion, for she exclaimed as feiw 
rendy as a vestal durst do with propriety, — ** Poor 

'^ Why,*' said the man, << Adolph is his name«-^ 
How did you know that ?" 

The sister of charity made an evasive reply, but it 
was not observed, for at that juncture they reached 
the door of the hospital, and were challenged by the 

Matilda then went straight to the ward where the 
reported lay, and the messenger proceeded on some 
other duty. 

Matilda was conducted to the bedside of the inva* 
lid; however, on looking at him, she saw, as she 
thought, that it could not be the brisk and blooming 
stripling she had formerly known. To be sure, many 
years had passed since that time, and the climate of 
MartiDique is not famous for beautifying the complex- 
ion. Moreover, she did not happen to recollect the 
interval whidi had been melted into oblivion since 


her Adolj^ had gcme in quest of glorjr, wad t& bor- 
nish bayonets, wbich no soldier durst ever neglect to 
do« It is, indeed, a jfort ot duty that comes round 
aumsh oftener than %hlan§^, Tvfaich, to a 
heart, is a most disagreeable ihbag. 

Instead of the ruddy jocund youth, whose ii 
memory haid placed in her most distinguished mcbe, 
Matilda beheld on the couch a gaont and saUov 
VBttaaa, emaciated widi disease, his teeth fearfiiQy 
protruding, thereby indicating that he was a ^^poar* 
Acblph," with a Totee ommous and sepnlchraL 

After she had administered some reviving cor&I, 
she piously warned him that he ought to send for 
a- confessor, as no doubt, having been a siddier, be 
could not but have much to answer for, and possiUj^ 
he might be called away before he had time to make 
Us shcift* 

He assured her, that although he had been a aol- 
dier, and had been long in the West Indies, where 
morals are not the best, yet he had lived a T«y 
innoonit life, and was quite prepaced to di& ^ What 
iSj indeed, in this world,^ said he, ^ that I tbmM sigh 
for length of days^? The hapfnnessef my youth 

pooaAm)LPH. 231 

Ij and I hare Aaee bot bicatbed nttfaar tbaa 
Bred. Mj heart was entir^ possessed with one 
hfelj image^ and losing the leafity, of which it 
was Ae i^dow, I hare been the most nnfortnaate of 

Matilda was deeply affected to hear him speak thuSy 
and unconsciously exclaimed, ^* Poor Adolph V* 

<^ In a rash moment/' said he, ** as I was going 
from the Belle Maison to La Ville, a calumnious 
bird hooted me from a bough, for I had then resolved 
to solicit the hand of Matilda, and the sound so tin- 
gled in my ears, that I went that very day to Lille^ 
and became a soldier." 

The sister of charity sat amazed. She looked at 
the dying man» She could trace no likeness to the 
brisk stripling she had loved in her youth, but the 
words Matilda, and Belle Maison, and La Ville, were 
familiar to her bosom, and but little explanation was 
requisite to convince her, that the ^^ poor Adolph,*' 
who lay panting before her, was no other than the 
same whom her virgin &ncy had enshrined in her 
constant heart. 

After they had confessed to each other with mu- 


tnal tears, and the earnest simplicity, characteristic of 
them both, their secretly cherished fondness, the 
djring soldier, forgetting his condition, made an effort 
to embrace her, but in the act he drew his last brea(}v 
and fell on her shoulder a dead man. 



VOL. n. 


The little volume of Poems which the Author published after 
liis Autobiography, contained three books of the poetical tale of 
the Hermit Peter. They were all that had been then written, 
save a few scraps which are interwoven in their proper place. 
He had no intention, at the time, of proceeding farther with the 
work. The opinion, however, of several friendi, in whose 
taste he has confidence, and the fiivour with which thej were 
noticed by some of the critics, induced him to resume the com- 
position, after it had been twenty years suspended. The two 
following Books complete the undertaking. 

It cannot add any merit to the poem to mention that they 
were dictated in a state if not of blindness, at least when the 
eyes of the Author were veiy ineffectual, and that they were 
chiefly composed in bed, — circumstances which should mitigate 
the severity of criticism. They were the pastime of infirmity, 
when the limbs were felt to be too heavy for the will, and when 
weakness compelled him to acknowledge the presence of disease, 
sharpening mental suffering. 

Edinburgh, I2th July, 1834. 



But the lugH mood of martyrdom and faitb 
Was not in all : amidst that multitude 
There was a man^ stem and mysterious^ 
Whom many Tf oes had spited with his kind^ 
And he did bate the universal race 
With the revengeful ardour of a foe. 
None knew his country, but the name be bore 
Was Argentless,^ and bis dark sullen mien 
Show'd bdei habitudes of state and power^ 
Beneath tbe mask of sordid beggary ; 
Yet he was rich beyond the utmost greed 
Of grasping avarice ; and it was told 
How he that coveted rare art possess'd 
Which turns the baser metals into gold« 

Few were the treasures by himself dispensed* 
Yet were his gififcs malign.*-wkh cuise they came^ 
<Petef AePettSlMfi 


And it was noted that his hand, unblest^ 
Gave not in charity to needful worth. 
To pale distress, that shrinks to speak of woe. 
Nor young endeavour that but wants a friend-** 
He gave to spendthrifts, and the fated rash 
Whom Nature, with maternal arms, restrains. 

Calm was his visage — ^no man witness'd there 
The flush of passion, nor from his still eye 
The glance of any mood, save the fix*d beam 
Of a fell spirit, that in its dread course 
Moved onward, reckless of all overthrow. 

Solemn and low, still in his measured speech 
The ear heard more than the soft tongue expressed ; 
And doubt and awe, when he was kindest, woke 
Strange fear, as if some guardian angel then 
Whisper'd, " Beware l" When Argendess beheld 
The crowd transmuted from ignoble rage 
To holiest zeal, with eager steps he through 
The clustering throng on to the portal press'd ; 
And as th^ Hermit from his mother turned. 
Blessing and blesVl^elt at his fe^l? the first 


Who claimed the badge and sjnnbols of the war. 
The Hermit started, and awhile sunrey'd 
With scorn, the mystic stranger ; then exclaim'd, 
^' What daring demoxi prompts thee in this hour 
To try thy firauds on me ? Hence, and repent I" 

Abashed, detected, firom his searching glance 
Th6 sullen Argentless shrunk cowering, and, 
As a sea-markji the crowd shunn'd him, afraid ; 
But soon his vjsage reassumed its calm, 
And motionless, unheeding all, he stood 
With downcast looks, till from the pottal led 
Th* attended Hermit meekly had retired. 
And tq their homes the multitude dispersed. 

Then, unobserved, caii^e ruthless Argentless, 
His vengeful spirit that lay coil'd unknown, 
Unfplding reared itself, and writh'd with rage. 
Malignant, fierce. Save in his lurid eyes 
That sparkled cruelty, no outward sign 
Of the roused hell in his remorseless breast 
Betray'd his( purpose, ever to himself^ 
Like burning torment dropp'd into a wound* 


Heimelt, and swore, Tnth clenched lumds upraised. 
Never to quit the Hermit's fated service. 
Till he had brought the victims of his seal 
Into some jeopardy, as deep and dire 
As £hat red gulf wherein the Egyptian king 
Perish'd of old with all his chivalry. 
The sides grew grim at his perturbed vow. 
Rash lightning leapt, and ponderous thunder roll'd^ 
As if his anger hurl'd the rattling peal. 
While hail and fire in frantic omen fell. 

Undaunted Argentless smiled at the storm, 
Pleased with its advocacy, and for shelter 
Craved wild admittance, where apart, sublime. 
The Hermit sat, who with stern kindling eyes 
Beheld him enter, and rebuk'd his boldness. 

The enfeofibd demon in the bad man'i^ bieast. 
Saw, in the n^ind^beam of the Hermit's look, 
A searching ray of that all-sighted iig^t 
Amidst the brightness of high heaven in^ecedy 
And grasping, clung to the doom'd heart possess'dr 
To ban 1dm from bis cause the saint airoie^ 


And all aroimd Iiush'd and expectant stood. 
As when the breathless multitude prepares 
To see the axe upon the guilty faSL 

The conscious misanthrope again shrunk back — 
At his ^treat a rustUng noise arose^ 
Dreader than riots of the woods or waves. 
Or than the silence of the untrodden waste. 
** Know ye that man ? " the solemn Godscall' cried. 
With £cdf ring accents, and mysterious sadness, 
The Hermit answer'd — " Yes, I first beheld him 
When in my pilgrimage I paced forlorn 
The shiplesa shores and lone funereal wastes. 
Where mould'ring lies the skeleton of Greece. 
It chanced one evening, from the hov'rin^ skies, 
I sought the lecHude of an ancient temple, 
Whose <dd magnificence was crush'd and scattered* 
The stcnrm had blown the beacon from the mole, 
And wrecks and seamen's corses strew'd the shore ; 
Along the sounding strand, with helpless wail. 
Wringing their hands, their hair dishevell'd flying, 

^ A monk in the first crusade* 


The wretched women echoed to the cries 

Of drowning men beyond the reach of aid. 

The bells rung wildly, and the monks with torches 

Mingling their requiems with the booming winds. 

Brought down their sacred relics to the sea, 

That would not be appeasM, but louder ^'d^ 

As if in bedlam mockery of their faith, — 

So wildly did the demons of the sur 

Ride in that dismal night. For refuge I 

Crept to the vaults beneath the gorgeous ruin ; 

There I beheld him leaning o'er a fire 

Which he had kindled with the wave-bleach'd splinters 

Of founder'd barks, and bones, — ^they seem'd of men. 

The flames that flar'd in his tempestuous eyes 

Show'd he was wrapt in fierce imaginings. 

His garb and mien proclaim'd he was a soldier, 

But the proud plume upon his helm was faded. 

I would have marr'd his musing, but he broke 

Into such frenzied blasphemy of man. 

That I fled shuddering to the storm for shelter.'* 

The preacher paus'd ; and from the dismal tale 
An audible response of hearts was heard^ 


Like those dread echoes in the AI|mie hills, 
Which the bold trareller in his daring hears 
Throb in their crystal caves, and holds his breath. 

Meanwhile the storm had in its rage abated, 
And firequent from her window in the cloud 
Look'd out the moon, and often smiling, told 
The shelt'ring pilgpim and the ling'ring guest 
They might go forth. What time the solemn bell 
Wam'd the enthusiast list'ners to their homes. 
All were departed of that pious throng — 
Save the fond mother and her zealous son. 
None else remained : awhile they silent sat. 
She gazing on him, tracing one by one 
Each infant grace that beam'd still on her heart. 
Till she forgot the fiided lapse of time. 
And caught him fondly, crying, ^^ Oh ! my child !" 

He chid her care, yet gently took her hand. 
As she oft doubted of his great design. 
And urg'd him long with many a look of love 
To stray no more, but shelter in her care. 



Soon the scene chang'd — a loud' fanatic shoUt 
Rose in the streets — thick hurrying feet were heard 
.With tread and trampling ; and the Hermit rose, 
With eager hand furling the lattice screen, 
To ask what tumult in that hour so still 
Awoke the peaceful night : amaz'd, he saw 
A gorgeous banner with the cross emblazon'd. 
High streaming to the moon, and Argentless, 
In knightly panoply, with truncheon'd grasp, 
Like a skill'd captain marshalling the throng. 

Indignant at the sight, the Hermit rush'd 
Straight to the crowd, and with uplifted hand 
Sternly forbade the iron-nerv'd old man 
To touch the ark of heaven's own hallow'd cause. 
But the rous'd spirit of the misanthrope, 
Thron'd in the chariot of its dire career. 
Triumphant driving to the prize of doom, 
Would not then be commanded, cried aloud, 
" Behold your leader !'' — To the holy man 
Th' emblazoned banner stoop'd in homage, and 
The awe-struck throng with solemn ardour bow'd. 


While from their lurkings all the fiends of ill 
That wateh'd the contest, sprung exulting forth. 

Th' ambitious demon, that with regal sceptre 
Marshals the warrior to unblest renown, 
Pour'd out the vial of disastrous pride 
On the prone Hermit, as with shouts of joy 
The fated armies took their destin'd way ; 
While overhead, countless malignant stars, 
The fiends on wing, grew pallid with alarm. 
Smote with strange horror, lest in that dread hour 
Heaven's Wrath was there with victory prepar'd. 

Still, as from upland lakes and woody glens. 
And sedgy wilds, and marshy regions drear. 
The pomp of some majestic river comes, 
The worshipped Ganges, or the mightier tide 
Of savage waters, rolling measureless 
Through wide Columbian wastes, all places pour'd 
Their fervent myriads to augment the host 
Led by the Hermit to the Holy Land. 

No trumpet's clangour cheer'd their toilsome march. 


Nor spirit^timng fife, nor the hold peal 

Of the courageous drum, was ever heard ; 

But, more inspiring than the mingled voice 

Of all accorded ijostruments of sound. 

They mov'd exultingly with psalms and songs 

Of ancient Israel to hattle led. 

And led victorious by the Lord of Hosts 

Through seas, o'er deserts drear, and impious kings, 

And thus triumphantly their anthems rung : 

" The mighty God of war, he is our captain ; 
He leads, he g^des us in our pathless way, 
Arm'd with the thunder, and hors'd on the storm. 
None can subdue, nor is there any victor 
But He that fought for the diosen of old. 
He is with us— yes, and we shall prevail — 
Onward Jehovah, triumphant avenger — 
Onward Jehovah, to conquer we go 1" 

The dismal Energies that rose from hell 
Saw them advance, and for awhile aghast 
Stood doubtful of the sight, wond'ring and aw'd, 
What myotic; purpose Providence divine 


Would then unfold, that Argentless awhile 
Should be the leader in the Hermit's cause. 
But o'er the waves and troubles of mankind, 
They call'd to mind how, in the dark'ning storm. 
As beacon-towers on rocks and shoals are seen, 
The bad and bold guide the rich argosies, 
And rush'd exulting, fluttering all their wings, 
To where, assembling on the Syrian plains, 
As from the arid waste the fiery blast 
Comes breathing desolation, Mahomed's 
Unrighteous hosts, with pride incensed, were ranged^ 
For rumour then, with speeding feet and wing. 
From all her tong^ues cried '^ Christendom is roused I" 
Fierce flamed their arrogance, as erst of yore 
Stem Heaven ordain'd the Babylonian king 
To stand on Zion with triumphant sword, 
And firom her gates the conquer'd Israel drive, 
To mourn in thraldom's chains by Babel's stream. 

The fiends beheld the infidels afar. 
Moving their panoply, as when the winds 
Of autumn mock the billowy forest scene. 
With waves embroidered, in Canadian woods^ 


Ere winter tears the garland from the bough ; 
And viewless then all as the deadly cold, 
Life-searching, penetrates the arborous aisle. 
They enter fell each bosom's dark abyss. 
And urge to desolate intents of war. 

All night they raged, and when the orient day 
UnfiirVd his glorious banner, and the stars 
Fled at his bright advancing, they began 
To roll there countless ; as the unhanded flames 
Devour the distance, and consume the heath. 
Or onwards still some bankless Hellespont 
Holds its wide course unchanging in the sea. 

The mail-clad chiefs moved like portentous orbs. 
And marshall'd squadrons in their proud array, 
[The glittering spear-points kindled by the sun,] 
Rode underneath a canopy of stars, 
While gleaming meteors, glancing wild and high, 
Threw flickering fires where'er the cymbals rung. 

At eve they halted, and to Mecca's shrine 
Far in the south, with cleansed hands they kneel. 


And lowly supplicate their prophet's care. 
The blissful host who saw their orisons, 
Brighten'd to splendour, for they knew of old. 
That aspirations of the humble heart 
Were ever welcome in the courts of heaven. 

Cow'ring remote, the dnful from below 
Beheld the dawn, and wondering backward scowFd, 
That such bright joy should as in radiance shine 
From the glad seraphim, who, ruby-red, 
Glow'd constant guardians of the heavenly towers ; 
But all was calm, and to their sordid ken 
No sign disclosed why, borne on ardent wings. 
The prayers of men are so received on high. 

The worship finished, and the homage done 
O'er all the plain, as in the twilight hour 
The stars break sparkling out along the sky. 
The kindled camp-fires spread their gems of light. 
Till earth seem'd emulous with constellations. 

Then the lone warrior, as he walks his rounds. 
Feels the soft thought breath'd from the stilly air, 


And unpero^ved permits the tear to flow 
For his far home, and wonders what is Fame. 
Yea, haply e'en the young enthusiast then, 
As on the embattled sward entranced he sits, 
Sway'd by the starry eloquence of night, 
May, as he hears some father's passing sigh 
For orphans left that shall be seen no more. 
Own the delirium of heroic dreams. 

But lo I the mom — the living light — ^the mom. 
The life that's visible — the mom that brings 
Refulgent hope and willing enterprise. 
With crested thoughts in plume and panoply. 
Peeps o'er the shoulder of yon eastern hill. 
Then with the shadows of the fleeing night. 
That harbinger the bright approach of day. 
The boding fancy, and the hidden fear, 
The care, the sorrow, and the doubt depart. 

Up rose the sun, and every turban'd chief 
Sat on his pawing and impatient steed. 
As the proud war-ship dares the coming wave. 
Before the signal for her voyage flies ; 


But soon afar die trumpets, sounding clear. 
Bade them advance, while on their backs the sun, 
Unclouded, pour'd his farvency intense. 
As on they move, the sound murm'ring around. 
Rose as the insect swarms, that dismal come. 
Mantling the plague, careering on the wind ; 
Such as o'ershadowed Egypt's fated land. 
When showering numberless on bladed fields 
They fell, and mourning swains saw the bare soil 
Blacken with famine where they did delight. 

Before them rose a rugged rising ground ; 
But as obedient Jordan curl'd his tide 
Back to its fountain, stream o'erflowing stream, 
When stood God's ark within the river's bed, 
They seem'd to mount the steep acclivity, 
And on the ridge extend their dazzling files. 
As the furr'd Russ on Borean clouds beholds 
The shifting phalanx of the midnight light. 

At last they halted, and high hov'ring near, 
The licensed demons hung on darkening wing ; 
For glorious issuing, all prepared for war. 


The seraphim appear'd : as the bright sun 
Emerging radiant from obscure eclipse, 
They sparkling shone, — so on the hills around. 
Of old, the prophet show'd his trembling servant 
Squadrons of fire and flaming chariots stand. 

But the dread war was not permitted then ; 
The fiends, dim mounting, sought the azure depths 
Of far abysms in the welkin hid. 
Shunning the sworded seraphim, afraid ; 
While from the height, where stood the infidels, 
Remote was seen across the distant plain. 
The coming multitude with banner'd pomp. 
And choral anthems of exulting praise. 
Led by the Hermit to the Holy Land. 


[ 251 ] 



As when the hunter, who has scoop'd his cave 
Beneath the lonely snows of Labrador, 
Looks forth in spring, and from the rugged coast 
Sees, on the shipless ocean, wide and wild, 
The broken winter's crashing fragments driven, 
Steer'd by the wind. Nature's dread bedlamite. 
To headlong ruin in the southern clime. 
The awe-struck shepherds, on the hills afar. 
Beheld the Hermit's desultory throng. 

Ranged on the uplands, stood the Saracens, 
And as, high towering on some glittering shore, 
A regal city lifts her gorgeous head. 
They saw them coming, and in pride of power 
Waited for battle, steadfast and refulgent. 

Nor did the arbiters that heaven had arm'd 
With glorious adamant, angelic mail, 


On cliff and cloud, and mountain hoar, to awe 
The fiends that war but to extend dismay, 
Stand unprepared : they, with enkindling files, 
Marshall'd their squadrons round the infidels. 
As if mysterious Providence had will'd 
Might and predominance to their ill cause. 

Meanwhile, alarm'd, in terrible divan. 
Grim in their dismal halls, the demons held 
Sullen communion — ^for their sultoi stern 
Had told them, in the prophecies of Heaven, 
Ere the foundations of the world were laid. 
It was predicted that a time was set 
When evil would begin to wane, and good 
Spread bright and brighter into perfect day. 

Around, on thrones of fire, red fire, they sat, 
Mantled with darkness black; — some, thoughtful, bent 
Their knotty foreheads down upon their palms, 
And others grinn'd, impassion'd to be marr*d 
In their malignancy, while backward cower'd 
A hideous thrall and servitor of Hell : 
Eager he look'd, as if the dawn of hope 


Could ever glow i^thin a breast accurst. 
Made heedful by the legend ; till at last 
Their chief arose. Like some great edifice 
At dead of night seen wrapt in smoke and flame. 
He tower'd before them, and in thunder spoke. 

*' When we were first from heaven's star-spangled 
Hurl'd headlong down to yon abhorr'd abyss, 
And weltering lay, toss'd on the sulphurous wayes. 
Whose fiery spray wastes the encumben'd vault 
Whereon the world of time has since been raised, 
I strove to wake, with earnest lofty voice. 
Your stunn'd and fall'n spirits to defy 
The worst of fiite with courage resolute ; 
And to this epoch, with undaunted front. 
Still unsubdued, you have achieved my praise. 
But now, all else that you unflinching bore, 
His wrath and thunderbolts, were as the rain. 
The vernal rain, that patient hinds implore. 
Compared to that unmitigable fire 
Shower'd on the pamper'd cities of the plain, — 


To that great contest which must now ensue. 
Therefore, (lu:e tests and champions of Hell, 
. Stand firm 1 serene in your collected might. 
And not unfought for yield the glorious prize ; 
Well it becomes the legions of the lost 
To wrench fresh valour from declared despair." 

He ceas'd, but none responded : all sat mute 
As if in doubt, when suddenly, as burst 
In storms and hurricanes of volleying flame, 
Glaring strange day upon the trembling earth, 
The nitre hordes of a beleaguer'd town 
Fired in their dungeon vaults, the fiends blazed up 
With zeal intense, and terrible combustion. 
Wildly they glared, and from their aspects shed 
A sullen radiance of fierce iron light. 
As when aghast Sicilian shepherds see 
The rolling lava's burning mountain tide 
Inflame the sky, or when the shipman drear, 
Wintering forgotten in the Arctic gloom. 
Beholds red phantasms in the crimson sky, 
And omens &tal to the sons of men. 


While they perplex'd ; upon the Syrian plain 
The rash crusaders meet the Saracens, 
And furious meditate remorseless strife. 

Glittering afar as the thick flickering wings 
Of countless locusts murmuring in the air, 
Ere yet their riots on the fields begin, 
The adverse armies join : all the sure earth, 
As the fierce onset of their charge outspreads, 
Shakes with the dissonance of voice and gleam, 
As if the noise were visible, and Wrath, 
With Vengeance carr'd, scourg'd on her thund'ring 

Crushing resistance ; dire the maddening throng 
Raged hoarsely, and the sound came on the wind 
To the lone swain who on the hills remote 
Hears the rough billows on the sandy shore ; 
And he beheld, like sparkling showers of fire, 
The mingling weapons of the warriors glance. 
As on that night, when the consenting gods. 
All on their thrones, as poets feign, surveyed 
The doom of Ilium, and th' insensate flames 
Lick from the earth her palaces and towers. 


Till set of sun they fought ; and all the plain 
Was with the dying and the wounded strewn, 
As the reap'd field is with the sheaves in harvest ; 
And when the shadows of the twilight spread, 
The thirsty vengeance of the infidels 
Was still unslaked ; nor when the solemn moon, 
From her calm threshold on the eastern hill. 
Blushing survey'd the madness of mankind, 
Did the crusaders in their zeal relent. 

Amaz'd, the Hermit saw the carnage piled, 
And on the hallow'd soldiers of the cross. 
Certain as death, still with unsparing might 
The edged sternness of their foes descend. 
And all around, in unavailing gore, 
The victims of las flatter'd rashness lie. 
At last a&r the loud triumphant peal 
Of insolent trumpets to the mountains told 
The battle won, and by the Saracens. 

^^ Have I so sinn'd," with clasped hands he cried, 
^* That He, the irresponsible, who guides 
Th* avenging armies of the living God, 


Tbe Lord Jehovah, hath deserted me ? " 
And with the cry of one cast to despair. 
Flung himself headlong, and with frantic grasps 
In frenzy wrestled with the passive earth. 

Long prone he lay, while over all the field 
The scatter'd remnants, leaderless, deplor'd 
The issues of the fight, but Argentless : 
He dying lay, yet, ere his spirit fled, 
A dreadful effort made to view the waste, 
Rais'd on his bleeding arm, and when he heard 
The note of triumph swelling high and clear, 
He knew the sound rose from the infidels. 
And shouting shrill, in mirthless laughter, died. 

Then there was peace ; that stillness ever found 
Where War has battled till he can no more. 
And Valour, weary with his unwip'd sword, 
Sits pale and thoughtful on the harmless ^in. 
No longer then sounds the rude clash of arms. 
Nor squadrons' thunder, nor the victor's shout 
Mingles with curses hoarse of baffled rage. 



Far other notes fill the wide ear of night — 
The choral anthem, and the hymn of war. 

Cries of loud sufiTring were unceasing heard 
In dismal concord ; and heart-rending there 
The cadence of the dying soldier's groan ; 
Like the deep death-bell in some mourning town. 
Where pestilence has entered, deeply booms 
The long-drawn anguish of the wounded charger ; 
And there the fiends that prowl with unblest lights 
Are wandering seen, and wheresoe'er they stop. 
Shrieks wildly sharp break from the mangled wretch. 
Struck, as he welters, by the plunderer's knife. 
At morn, the soldier from his comrade dead 
There bans the camp- dog; and the shatter'd there. 
To scare the foul birds hovering o'er them, lift 
Their bleeding limbs, and roll their gashy heads ; 
And there the sun, remorseless on his throne. 
Brings clot^ds of carnage flies that fill the air 
With quickening gloom, a living shower of sound. 

Rous'd from hi§ trance, for wrapt in trance he lay. 
With sorrow stunn'd, the awaking Hermit gaz'd. 


And on the upland saw the sated foes 
Their bright battalions range ; while all the plain, 
Where he had yesterday exulting seen 
Phantoms of fame and effigies of power, 
By him the blossoms deem'd of kingly fruit. 
Lay still and drear, with ruins overspread, 
As where Balbek and mute Palmyra mourn 
Their doom and widowhood amidst the waste. 

^^ Lord,'' then he cried, ^^ thy will be done on earth ! 
The worm no more shall in thy chariot ride, 
Or be aught else than thy implicit agent. 
I may not question, Lord, that still with thee 
The victory rests, tho' for a while exult 
The powers of Hell as conquerors of might. 
Thine is the vantage of the bloody day, 
And he who contrite bends the humbled head, 
Crown'd, for a diadem, but with disasters, 
May yet the vintage of thy wisdom gather. 
I will not, Victor, Warrior, Avenger, 
Though now before me, as the wrecks and corses 
Seen on the shore when Miriam sung thy praise, 
Lie ^U the spring of Christendom destroyed. 
Let my heart sink — I do rejoice, Jehovah ; 


It is thy work, and, therefore, must be wise. 
But, oh I dread Merciful, my weakness pity — 
I am a man, and full of frailties, Lord ; 
I can but weep that in thy righteous counsels 
Such was the judgment for my errors given, 
That yon bright sun beholds a scene like this. 
My friends, alas ! but they are all with thee, 
Not less in death, awful, mysterious God I 
Than when they flash'd their ineffectual steel. 
Thou art the Sovereign — thee must all obey !" 

When he had ended, and his lowly heart 
Confess'd to heaven, with penitential tears, 
His hollow vanity and impious hope, 
To build himself renown and monarchy, 
And make the agencies of God's own cause 
The aids and means of temporal designs, 
The Grace and Mercy, winged cherubims 
That hovering wait before the throne of light, 
Fluttered their pinions, eager to receive 
The Hermit's pardon, and to earth came down. 
Bearing th' assurance of remitted sin ; 
For heavenly spirits speed with joyous haste 
When sent to man with messages of bliss. 


Sooth'd and restor'd, as on the sward he sat, 
Sweet Mercy o'er him spread her gentle wings, 
And, beck'ning, drew the guardian angels nigh, 
That tend the pardon'd as they lie asleep. 
Then thick around, as far-come birds at sea, 
That sailors try with outstretch'd hands to clutch, 
They circling came, and on the saint alight. 

In that oblivious sleep and tranquil hour, 
A spirit rising from the cell of dreams 
Was with him, and he had the inward sense 
In symbols manifest of things to be. 
As if he stood upon a mountain's brow 
High overlooking all the world of time. 

Below him, kingdoms and their glory lay 
Extending to the limitless horizon. 
Bright streams that drew their links from upland 

Came pouring from the bosom of dark woods ; 
Their blue augmenting tides glassing the towers 
Of many a town that in the sunshine rear'd 
Her spiry head. The cliffy headlands stretch'd 


Towards the isles, and countless ships were seen 
All gaily glittering on a silver sea. 

But while he ga^ed, the phantom landscape changed. 
And high before him rose a lofty pile. 
So pld, as if it had for ever stood — 
So strong, as if it would for ever stand. 
The top look'd over all the hills, and bore 
The sculptured images of mighty kings. 

But suddenly the skies were overcast. 
And hail and fire were shower'd with wrath from 

The hills gush'd torrents, and the rivers roll'd 
A gathering chaos as they rag'd along ; 
The woods were crush'd before the roaring blast, 
As if some angry demon trampled them ; 
An earthquake shook the mountains, and the sea 
Unclosed the trembling isles from his embrace, 
And seized them with a furious clasp again ; 
Cities were overthrown, tefmples cast down ; 
Castles did rock, and topple on their seats. 
The everlasting hills ; altars were moved, 


And priests fled from their offerings ; idols thea 

Were, by their worshippers, cleft into stones, 

To build up ramparts ; churches of the Lord, 

With all the pageantries of pomp and ritual. 

Melted away, like visions seen in ice. 

That are by sufferance of the absent sun, 

And vanish from his beam : all men were seized 

With an impetuous frenzy, and the codes 

Of olden wisdom, by fimtastic hands 

Were torn as warranties of tyranny ; 

The chalice and the charter were as one 

Witness and testimony, that mankind 

Were juggled with by man ; the regal sceptre 

Became a sword all foul with gouts of blood ; 

Shrieks rose afar, and blazing bulwarks burn'd ; 

The halo vanish'd from the royal head ; 

To helmets grim the sacred mitres grew ; 

The lawn was dyed with murder, and lewd songs 

Blared from carousals held at sainted shrines. 

Where batter'd chalices with wine o'erflow'd ; 

The ravenous vultures flesh'd their beaks and fangs 

On limbs they mangled ; and the setting sun, 

Red in the west, darting disastrous fires, 

Foretold the doom and burial of the day. 


Again the vision changed : a brightening mom 
Da^n'd in the darkness that lay black on all, 
A heaven of glory, and another earth. 
Where white-robed saints in peace and holiness 
Knew but the code of Calvary, and ruled 
By it the calm dominions of the just. 

All there had tasks, for heaven is pleased with toil. 
The toil that's earnest, and ensures repose ; 
Hard labour was unknown ; the dreams of guilt. 
The restless couch of unappeased desire. 
The idle anguish of luxurious bowers. 
Lean Want that wrenches life from grasping Famine, 
And bloated Sloth that ever asks for more. 
Were there alike unknown : no weary sigh 
Did there satiety or need betoken. 
Nor there Voluptuousness was fluttering seen, 
A fated fly that sips empoison'd sweets, 
And in fastidious ecstasies expires. 
Loathed as cantharides : there man with man 
In goodness emulous, contented fouj^ 
Success from brotherhood still constant spring ; 
Nor fenced woodland, nor the sunny lawn, 
Where well-fed Wealth, amidst green pasture lies, 


Were there, nor hovel of the rent-rack'd hind, 
iSbi'A with the golden dome and lordly tower, 
But wisdom reign'd, and peace was ever blest. 

Calm from his trance the Hermit rose, and, sooth'd 
By Heav'n's sweet influence in the vision'd sleep. 
Mused of his dream, and what it might portend. 

The hurl and havoc of terrestrial things. 
He deem'd, betokened war, and storms, and change, 
"nil all that's old, perish'd and overthrown, 
Whirl'd from the shuddering bosom of the earth. 
As ashes volleying on the winds disperse, 
Shall pass away ; and for the surgeand battle. 
The halcyon days of holiness serene 
Shine on the world, and Christ preside o'er all, 
True glorious conqueror, his sword, the Truth ! 

Then awed to think that with celestial aims 
He had the dross of human passion mix'd. 
The Hermit traced with pensive steps again 
* His solemn mission to the western brave. 

VOL. II. 'z 

[ 266 ] 


In a little hamlet near the skirts of Sydenham 
Common, resided a young man, a gardener, who, in 
his personal appearance, was much superior to the 
other ^' lads of the village," but a superstitious tem^ 
perament made him shy and diffident ; insomuch, that 
he was better known as ^^ Bob the muser," than by 
his own name. Still, notwithstanding his bashful 
taciturnity, he was much esteemed by all who knew 
him, being quiet and kind-hearted. One day as Bob 
was coming alone from Dulwich by a footpath, which 
led to his home, through Norwood, he met grim 
Moll, a gipsy woman who belonged to one of the 
gangs who then had their hovels in the wood, at that 
time in existence. 

Moll was well known for a stem hardihood of man- 
ner, but she had not before been suspected of pos- 
sessing any skill or faculty beyond what was practised 


by the other gipsies. She knew the virtues of many 
herbs,^ and could read the lines of life as truly as the 

' Skill in herbs seems in all ages to have been an accom- 
plishment of the professors of " mystical predominance." I 
remember, when a very young boy, of being much interested 
on viewing the processes of an old woman, who, as one of the 
expedients to prolong her poor life, distilled peppermint. She 
was a singular person, and had a strange ** uncanny" lo<^. 
Her caldron was a large kail-pot, with a tin still-head, which, 
even to me in those days of simplicity, had in her dark apartment 
a lugubrious appearance. I see the scene still ; and were she to 
make her appearance now, as she was then, I think myself 
likely to know her. I had then neither heard of Macbeth nor 
of Medea. 

About twenty-five years ago, when collecting scraps for the 
note respecting witchcrail in my Life of Cardinal Wolsey, I made a 
curious collection of strange matters bearing on this subject, but 
none surprised me so much as the light they seemed to throw 
on the learning of Shakspeare. I think that some of the com- 
mentators on his works have done quite as much to prove their 
own ignorance, as to show that he was defectively learned. 

Among my papers I have found some of those old scraps. I do 
not mean, however, to controvert the general opinion of his want 
of classical knowledge, but I do think that the extent of his read- 
ing has been underrated; for he seems to have been familiar 
with translations, and no one can doubt the use he has made of 
the character of Ovid's Medea in Lady Macbeth, and ** the 
metaphysical aid*' he has drawn from other Latin poets. It 
deserves, for example, to be noticed, that in Macbeth the god- 
dess of the witches, as well as of Medea, is Hecate ; and the ingre- 
dients of their caldron are wonderfully similar to those of hers. 


most erudite in palmistry. She was indeed a shrewd 
carlin, but in the general opinion not old enough to 
be a witch, though many imagined she was on the 
boundary of the mystical age. 

When Bob saw her approaching he did not much 

He does not appear to have, as is commonlj alleged, followed 
the then vulgar notions of witchcraft, such as Reginald Scot, 
his cotemporary, describes, but to have imitated a classic mod^ 
The ingredients of Medea*s " hell-broth," as in an old translation 
of Ovid, may not be improperly introduced here. 

*' Furious Medea, with her hair unbound. 

About the flagrant altar trots a round ; 

The brand dips in the ditches black with blood. 

And on the altars fires th' infected wood ; 

Thrice purges him with waters, thrice with flames, 

And thrice with sulphur, muttering horrid names. 

Meanwhile, in hollow brass the medicine boils. 

And swelling high in foamy bubbles toils. 

There seethes she what th* ^monian vales produce, 

RootS) juices, flowers, and seeds of sovereign use ; 

Adds precious stones, from farthest Orient reft. 

And pebbles, by the eblnng ocean left; 

The dew collected in the dawning springs ; 

A screech owl's flesh, with her infamous wings ; 

The entrails of ambiguous wolves, that can • 

Take and forsake the figure of a man ; 

The liver of a long.liv*d hart : then tdces 

The scaly skins of small cinyphean snakes. 

A crow's black head, and pointed beak, were east 

Among the rest ; which had nine ages past. 


fike to meet her. It was on a wild risbg ground, 
and no other person was in sight* A few stunted 

These «nd a thousand more, without a name, 
Were thus prepared by the barbarous dame 
For human benefit.** 

But to return. I am not sure now who made the following 
translation of Virgil, but it is curious, and applicable to what is 
said in the text. 

" These herbs did Mceris give to me» 

And poisons pluck*d at Pontus ; 

For there they grow and multiply, 

And do not so amongst us.** 

Virgil, Ecloff. 8. 

And the following is also applicable. 

" With herbs and liquor sweet, that still 
To sleep did men indine." 

Trantlated prior to 1684, By Thomas Phaiars. 

A charm which the witches use at gathering their medicinal 
herbs, is, however, still more in point, but I do not see how it was 
considered unblest. 

" Hvl be thou holy herb, 

Growing on the ground ;-^ 
All on mount of Calvary 

First wert thou found. 
Thou art good for many a sore. 

And healest many a wound ; 
In the name, of sweet Jesns, 

I take thee from the ground.'* 

But I am not writing a treatise on the black art. 


oaks were sdattered on the left side of the path, and 
from the right a shtiggy steep descended; at the 
bottom of which spread a wide uncultiTated plain, 
and beyond it lay, with silvan patches interspersed, 
a rural and more riant landscape. Still it was a 
desolate spot, and the day being hazy and calm, there 
was a silence in the air, and a solitude around, that 
awakened feelings of awe and dread. 

Bob, though reluctant to face the sibyl, was yet 
too manly to avoid her ; and thus somehow, almost 
in spite of himself, he was constrained to proceed 
onward. When he had come within a few paces of 
her, she suddenly halted, and by some unaccountable 
sympathy, he did the same thing at the same moment 
too, and looked at her with a kind of apprehensive 

Moll appeared to be near three-score, and was of a 
large stalwart form ; severe and grave in her physi- 
ognomy — her air was at once peculiar and masculine. 
She wore a black silk bonnet, much faded ; a red 
cloak that had once been scarlet, but which had ac- 
quired a crimson hue, and which, by several rents and 
the raggedness of the bottom selvage, betokened both 


age and rough usage. Her gown was of brown calico, 
with white and green, flowers overspread ; and what'. 
of her petticoat was visible, had been once blue, 
but it was concealed by a check apron, which had 
evidently been put on that morning, clean from the 

After examiiung Bob for some time, she went 
towards him courageously, and stooping forward, 
significantly patting at the same time the side of her 
nose with the fore-finger of her left hand, looked him 
steadily in the &ce, and asked him, in a way that is 
not easily described, for a sixpence. Bob at the 
time had none to give, but he gave her rather an 
evasive denial; to which she made no reply, but 
stepping three paces backward, raised her right arm 
aloft, and said, with a mysterious scowl, these simple 
words — 

"You had better 1" 

His answer was not delivered quite so firmly as his 
first refusal, at least it was not so distinct ; but he 
resumed his walk, and she went on muttering some- 
thing which seemed to him equally strange and 


ominpus. Soon after he saw her descend into the 
hollow, and disappear among the boshes. 

At this time Bob had some professional duty to 
perform in the garden of the coUege, (then newly 
erected)) every other day, and he was, in consequence, 
often seen at his work by the passengers on the ad- 
jacent highway. Whether grim Moll had observed 
him before, cannot now be deterndned ; but the next 
time after the encounter that he had occasion to cross 
liie common, exactly on the same spot, she suddenly, 
like an apparition, again stood before him, and in the 
self-same appalling attitude, patting her nose em- 
phatically witli her finger, demanded a shilling. 

Bob, a good deal agitated, told her, and told her 
truly, that he had no shillings to give her ; upon which 
again stepping three paces backward, and raising her 
hand, she repeated in the same manner as she had 
before done, 

" Yott had better, or you may go fiuther and fare 

Bob went on ; instead, however, of resuming 
her walk as on the former occasion, the sibyl stood. 


Still ; and wlien he looked back to see what she was 
domg, both her anns weie extended in the air, and 
she seemed entranced in a posture like one uttering 
a magical invocation. 

Something in this second interview affectedBob with 
inexplicable emotion. He did not like much what 
he had heard of the cunning and malignant malice of 
the unblest and unbaptized gipsy, and her attitude 
smd supernatural gestures filled him with mystery and 
fear. In fact, all day at his work, he could think of 
nothing but of her, and of the unholy increase of her 
demand. The following morning his anxiety was, how- 
ever, somewhat abated, and towards the evening, as he 
had never heard witchcraft imputed to her, he uncon- 
sciously thought less seriously of the stern crone ; but 
it happened, as he was sitting at night in the public- 
house, two men came in, who seemed by their dress 
field labourers ; and over their ale, one of them began 
to tell the other of something which he could not ex- 
plain respecting the conduct of an old woman whom 
he had seen that day ; and by the description Bob 
recognised the weird sister of the common. 

" In short," said one of the unknown men, " if she 


be not a witch, I am sure she ought to be, for she * 
has such odd ways with her, that she is not like a 
mortal creature/' 

There was certainly nothing very remarkable in 
this clownish speech, nevertheless it made a serioui^ 
impression on Bob, and the word witch, like Mac^: 
beth's amen, stuck in his throat. It gave a bias to. 
his thoughts, and made them engender superstitious, 
fancies, in so much that all the livelong night he was 
beset with solemn ruminations, and frequently said to. 
himself, " If grim Moll should prove to be a witch ? " 
as if he had some dread upon him. 

Next morning he had again occasion to go to Dul-» 
wich, but by this time he had worked himself into 
a resolution to contend with his apprehensions, a re- 
solution which proved the depth of the sentiment 
with which he was affected; and, in consequence^ 
chose again the path along the ridge of the common 
where he had first met the sinister and malevolent 
hag, on purpose, like the boy who whistles in the 
churchyard, by assuming a virtue, though he had it 
not, to cheer his courage up. On approaching the. 
enchanted spot, however, he became thoughtful, and 


an anidety which he could not cast off invested his 
reflections. In this frame of mind the sibyl again 
stood before him, and fiercely, with all her former 
mystery, demanded two shillings. 

The sight and speech startled him greatly, and 
with evident perturbation he stepped back, and as^ 
suming more determination than he felt, reproached 
her with waylajring him, and so improperly attempt-^ 
ing to extort money. 

While he was speaking, she again stepped majes* 
tically three paces backward, and again extending 
her arms, exclaimed,—*- 

'^ Cur, cur, accursed cur — the mange and the mur-^ 
rain be upon thee I" 

The astonished and terrified muser fled from her 
in horror ; his mind swarmed as it were with hideous 
conceits ; the dismal sense of a malediction fell upon 
him, and the heavens and the earth seemed to be 
mingled in tremendous confusion around. 

When he became more master of himself, a vague 
consternation, to which he could give no name, took 
possession of his mind, from which it could not be 
dislodged; and he felt as it were an indescribable 


incubus upon him, more terrible than the night^mare, 
goading him on with the spell of a witch, to despair 
and perdition. 

This superstitious alarm abated, however, in some 
degree before the evening, and he returned to his 
home convinced of having encouraged baleful appre- 
hensions. But instead of taking the short footpath 
over the conmion, he kept the highway, and walked 
a short distance in front of several labourers. He did 
not choose to walk behind them, strangely fearful 
that he might be attacked by something from the 
rear, a proof that, however disengaged he endea- 
voured to appear, his mind was filled with obscure 

When he arrived at his home he went immediately 
to bed, telling his mother that he did not feel him^p 
self quite so well as usual, and thought he would be 
better of a sleep. But all night he was molested 
with gloomy dreams, and lay tossing in " restless 

In the morning, when he rose at his customary 
early hour, and was about half dressed, he recollected 
it was Friday, and that he had promised to see oii that 


day a young woman at Eltham, to whom he was 
much attached, in order to fix with her the day of 
their marriage ; in consequence he laid aside his work- 
ing habilim^nt89 and put on his Sunday clothes, with 
the intention of fulfilling his promise. 

The road from the village where he resided to 
Eltham was not then much frequented, nor indeed is 
it yet, though the country is now more enclosed, and 
there was a degree of solitude in the aspect of the 
fields as he came down behind Lewisham, particu- 
larly forlorn, and which his morbid imagination 
peopled with phantoms of awe ; still he went forward 
to Eltham. 

For some time, however, he was haunted with in- 
describable anxieties, in so much that when he came 
in sight of his " sweet nut's " dwelling, he could 
scarcely muster bravery enough to proceed forward. 
But at last, ashamed of his reluctance, he did go on, 
and knocked briskly at the door. It was opened by 
the young woman's mother, who had evidently been 
weeping, and who, on seeing him, uttered a wild cry 
of sorrow, and fell senseless in his arms. 


He called some of the neighbours, whom he saw 
looking at him, to his assistance, and with their help 
removed the afflicted old woman into the house, and 
at the same time learnt from them, to his inexpress- 
ible grief, that about the hour in which the gipsy 
had pronounced her oracular curse, the damsel of his 
hopes had gone off with a party of soldiers. 

I shall drop the curtain on the feelings with which 
the news affected the sincere and simple-minded lover, 
but on reaching home he was really indisposed — so 
much, indeed, was he so, that his face was pale, his 
lips livid, and lus eyes shone with a febiile and glassy 
lustre, more impressive than the wildest speculation 
of vehement passion. 

He thought, however, less of the perfidy of his 
sweetheart than of the imprecation of the gipsy, for 
he could now no longer but think that grim Moll 
belonged to the unblest sisterhood. Her image was 
predominant in his mind. All other ideas because 
subordinate to that which her incomprehensible energy 
and malediction had inspired; But he said nothing ; 
and the disappointment he had suffered, sufficiently 


accounted to his mother, as well as to the neigbboursy 
for his sullen tadtumity, and the unsocial sequestra- 
taon, to which from that period he became addicted. 

In his silence and seclusion, he drooped, and peaked, 
and pined, and his depression daily grew worse. At 
last an old carlin of the village, and who had some 
repute for her sagacity, happened to say that it 
was not with a common ail poor Bob was afflicted ; 
adding mysteriously, that she wished he had not in- 
(purred the malice of some one possessed of more power 
than God had given. 

This mystical aphorism, by the time it was repeated 
to his mother, had assumed more definite intelligence, 
and it was reported to her that surely Bob wa^ 
blighted by an evil eye. 

The distressed widow related what she had heard 
to her son, and then, but not till then, he told her of 
his different interviews on the common, with the 
Medean sorceress, as he now deemed her. 

But although, by this disclosure, his breast was in 
3ome degree eased of its burden, he yet continued to 
fall away, for the sense of being under the infiuemie 
of a malignant spell was unappeased ; and no one who 


heard his mothei^s tale of his despondency, could doubt 
he was infected with some unholy taint. In short, he 
grew daily a greater object of pity, and withered 
away till he died. 

A hope of his recovery, while life remained, had 
been cherished by the neighbours with solicitude ; but 
when they heard of his death, their exasperation 
against the Sibyl of Norwood was unbounded. The 
young men, in a body, went to her hovel, vowing 
vengeance ; and they found her seething a pot, which 
they called a caldron, and stirring, as they thought, 
a brewing of sorcery. 

They at once seized her with fear and rashness, 
tied her hands behind, and dragged her to Croydon, 
where the assizes were then sitting. They denounced 
her as a witch, and she in vain protested her innocence, 
but her accusers were inexorable with superstition, 
and she was ultimately indicted for having caused 
the death of Bob the muser, by her spells and in- 

The presiding judge was more enlightened than 
the general audience, and being much affected by 
the earnest vehemence with which the old woman 


asserted her innocence, was led to enquiire joi herself 
as to the nature of any transactions she had ever held 
witib the deceased, and she related all the circum- 
stances which had given rise to the merciless persecu- 
tion with which she had been assailed. 

She told him that the first morning on which she 
had fallen in with Bob on the common, she was 
much beset with want ; and seeing that he was cowed 
by her appearance, she had been instigated by her 
necessities to practise the little art which had led to 
such results. Having failed to effect the extortion 
that day, she tried the second time, when the pertur- 
bation of the victim was still more obvious. Being, 
however, again unsuccessful, she waited for him a 
third time, and having become angry and impatient 
at still being refused, she could not restrain her vexa- 
tion, and had uttered the imprecation, meaning no 
more by it than to vex him in a way that she had 
often seen other gipsies practise, when treated as she 
had been, seduced to it by the dread with which she 
noticed he had regarded her. 

The judge expressed himself satisfied with her in- 
nocence of the crime as it was set forth in the indict- 

VOL. II. 2 A 


ment, but inveighed so strongly on the immorality 
that might ensue if such offences as hers were allowed 
to go unpunished) that the jury without hesitation 
found her guilty. The fearful sentence of the law 
was necessarily pronounced. 

The foregoing little story id intended to illustrate 
the author's opinion of the species of delinquency 
which was formerly punished as witchcraft^ and which, 
by the abrogation of the statutes against it, may now 
be Dractised with imnunitv. 

be practised with impunity. 

[ 283 ] 


The dawn slow bright'ning up the eastern sky 
Chang'd the bine sapphire to pale chrysolite, 
The moon grew wan, the starry orbs on high 
Dwindled, and seem'd in their mid coarse to set ; 
No breeze did then the slumbering Bosph'rus fret, 
But all was calm, save through the peaceful air 
The solemn muzzim from the minaret. 
Amidst the moonlike opal clusters there. 
Summoned the faithful to the mosque and prayer. 
The light caique,^ with many a Christian guest 
From dusky Tophono, slow skimm'd to where 
Imperial Stamboul gemm'd her gorgeous breast. 
Waiting her paramour, the Sun, and bright 
Arch, roof, and dome, adom*d her jeweFd crest, 
That morning tinted with her gladdening light. 
And martigans' like birds prepared their wings for 

^ Row-boats. * Barks. 

l: 284 ] 


Saint Anthony dwelt in a cave, 

A hermit holy, good, and simple — 

Above the witch-guard row^n-trees wave, 

And prattling waters round him rimple ; 

All happy in security. 

The mavis and the merle sing, 

The leverets play at liberty, 

And leaping light with gaiety. 

Chase the blue swallow's skimming wing. 

A scene so Eden-like and fair. 

The hermit from his cell surveying. 

Felt all his feelings prompt to prayer. 

Just then a wandering imp of air 

Flew past and heard him praying. 

Saint Anthony, as saints are wont. 

His strain repeated loud and strong. 

And ever and anon he paused 

To hear the hills the strain prolong. 

The imp of ill, as you may guess, 


In gamesome mood the saint to mock, 

Alighted in a still recess, 

And play'd the echo (rf the rock ; 

While ever as the hermit paus'd, 

His last words sweetly swelling. 

The wicked imp took up the strain. 

And made a holy yelling. 

But still the saint, as saints should do. 

When fell malignants tempt to sin. 

More zealous in devotion grew — 

The imp increased his din. 

So loud at last between them rose 

This rapturous endeavouring. 

That devils came in flocks like crows 

From regions far and near, 

Their friend unfairly favouring. 

But them the saint did nothing fear. 

Like a brave cock still crowing clear, 

Triumphantly he pray'd. 

The imp began to pant and fret — 

Some laugh'd, some talked, and some did threat, 

And some did ban, and some did bet, 


The rest were sore disDiay'd. 

'Twas in this crisis of the game 

The old imperial tempter came ; — , 

" What, ho !" he cries, " what means this crowd ? 

This praying long, this echoing loud? 

And shall not we the vict'ry daim?" 

Away, a gallant bounding buck, 

With brauching horns he proudly sped — 

The rest appeared a hunter s train. 

Tumultuous sweeping o'er the plain 

Where'er the leader led. 

But rapt, regardless of the sight, 

The saint still pray'd with all his might. 

As foaming torrents roll their force 

Impetuous and disorderly, 

Down come the buck, and hounds, and horse — 

The buck sheer o'er the hermit bounds. 

High leaping follow horse and hounds 

In hurly-burly furiously. 

^^ O, such a saint," cried Beelzebub, 

" I never saw before. 

To pray so calm and steadily, 


His phrases flowing readilyi 
Unchecked by such uproar." 

But now another guise they take, 
The old one still them heading, — 
Like hinds and maidens, two and two, 
With pipe and tabor on they go, 
A merry village wedding. 
I need not tell who play'd the priest, 
With twinkling eyes and visage chubby ; 
The pimple on his purple nose 
Was like the royal ruby. 
With blithe good-morrows as they pass, 
The pious saint they laughing hail, 
And jocundly they bid him come 
To see the happy couple home — 
But all, full well I wot, they found of no avail. 

Anon, in the pass of the mountains was heard 
The sound of bold trumpets and cymbals afar, 
And soon with bright eagle's high glittering appeared 
An army all glorious advancing to war ; 
While down the steep defiling. 


With drums and hautboys playing, 
You might have seen the glancing arms. 
And heard the chargers neighing. 

But who the pomp of this array shall paint, 
That near the cave magnificently pass'd ? 
In the vain hope that heaven's devoted saint 
A wond'ring look would on the pageant cast« 
The bugles swell'd with a courageous blast, 
Th' inspir'd soldiers answer'd with a cheer, 
The firm earth shook, as heavily and vast 
Roll'd on the ordnance in the cumber'd rear — 
The hermit rais'd his voice, and strove that all might 

Soon tumultuous from a&r 
Was heard the meeting tides of war 
Conflicting on the heath — 
As Niagara's thunders roar, 
The headlong human torrents pour 
The cataracts of death. 
The battle loud and louder nears. 
And random balls and splinter'd spears, 

.A LEGEND OF 8T AMTHO^jf. ^69 

Hoarse curses, nungled grdicns add (jieers^ 

Come h^ralduig the anarchy. 

Now rank on rank confusion drives^ 

Dire as the yoUey'd thunder rives^ 

The furious artillery strives 

'Midst whirlwinds of cavalry. 

The wounded falling as they fly» 

Around the hermit gasping lie, 

" Oh I water I water I" wild they cry, 

^* One drop for blessed charity/' 

Regardless of their piteous plaint, 

Serene the self-admiring saint 

Knelt obdurate in pray'r. 

Vindictive for this new disgrace. 

In shape a bomb from the mid air 

Satan exploded in his face. . . 

As a vapour dissolves into* air, 
The phantom slow melting withdrew. 
And the landscape, all sunny and fair, • < - 

Retum'd to Saint Anthony's view. 
The flocks on the mountains reclined, 
llie shepherds were stretched in sleep ; - 

VOL. II. 2 B 

It was noon, not a biesrtbing of wind . 

Stirr'd the tendrils tliat hsng from tite i 

In the cool shadoor efhis cot tbe swBta 

Suiyey'd the cattla from the gadiiest nm^ 

And knee-deep in the calm and glassy nait^ 

Their murmuring upland, pastures shun* 

Then bright and proudly winding through the gtWBM, 

As banded warriors greenwood alleys pasi^ 

Towards the saint a ishinkg serpent roU'd ; 

But vainly glared its sparicBng eyes^ 

In Tain it shew'd a thousand dyes 

In every wind and fold ; 

The hermit scorn'd the wUy snake. 

And baffled Satan sprang into the brake* 

Then clouds began to gather, 
And gusts of rude wind stirr'd the sand — 
Presaging stormy weather, 
The curlews came screaming to laiuL 
Afar in the horizon. 
With sails all silvery bright, 
Appears a stately vessel. 
Fast nearing on the night 5 


And in the broken sunsliine 
That glimmers cf er the deep» 
Seems lighted the tall beacon 
Tlvit eroiras the diffy ateepw 

Now blacky Toluminoufi^ and dire^ 
Fringed irith fieioe and cximaon fire^ 
/The omens of die tempest wrap the skiers 
The mountains frown — ^the yeasty billows r)ae». 
Dull sinks the sun towards the western gate. 
And on the ye^^ in the heiinit's view, 
A wavering glance at her impending fate > 

Shed through th6 clouds, and suddenly withdrew. 
Within the headlands of the bay. 
Where springy the spiry waves in spray. 
The vessel drives forlorn, 
And in the lighted beacon's beam 
Her sails in shi^ loose fluttering ^am. 
All by the tempest torn. 

Now, down the pathway, neapr the cell. 
With hooks and,eords, and purpose fell. 
And many a ^aieing brand. 


A savage herd, uneheek'd^ unstay'd^ 
Blaspheming, hurried to the strand ; 
And still the saint regardless pray'd; 
Kor when the dread crash was heard on the shore. 
And the shrieks of the drowning burst shrill on his ear. 
Nor yet when arose the infernal uproar 
Of the plundering fiends in their murderous career. 
Moved his tongue frqm its chime, or his eye shed a 

« What the devil,"* cried the DevU, 
** Have we all been about, 
Not to tempt him with a woman ?'* 
All the Devils gaveca shout. 
And clapt thear paws with rapture fidn. 
Sure now the victory to gain. 

Straight on the grass extended lies 
A glowing, ripe, voluptuous fair. 
Her limbs are restless, and her longing sighs 
Temper the soft embracing air. 
The hermit felt the influence warm. 
And strange emotions uige his blood ; 


Around the expecting devils Bwamiy 

And Beelzebub on tiptoe stood. 

Again the damsel turns, 

And quicker breathes her sighs — 

The Devil gloats — Sunt Anthony — Saint Anthony !— 

The saint has closed his eyes I 

Meek, humbled, trembling and contrite, 

He pray'd for strength agdnst temptation^ 

And all the devils took to flight — 

So ended this probation ; 

While from the hamlet in the dale 

A silvan flute its vocal sweetness sent. 

And from her bower the wakeful nightingale 

Her sweeter cadences symphonious lent.^ 

1 If it be any merit, the foregoing was written in Greece, partly 
in Athens, long ago. The attempt began in a description, from 
recollection, of one of Teniers' hobgoblin temptations of St 








Historians say the human character, in the age of Edward 
Ill.y attained the highest degree of heroism and courtesy. The 
following dramatic pageant is an attempt to represent the spirit 
of the great wars of that time^ and to embody the magnanimity 
cherished in a most illustrious period No circumstance is 
aUuded to, nor incident introduced, not recorded in the chro* 
nicies, nor is a single sentiment ascribed to the individuals not 
in unison with historical truth. 

Many years ago I heard of an imperial entertainment given by 
the Empress Catherine II. at the Taurian Palace to Prince 
Potemkiuy when her magnificent Polonois, wliich bears that 
name, was first performed, and that in the course of the even* 
ing a series of dramatic scenes were exhibited, also of her lifiyesty's 
composition, representing the most remarkable events in the 
ancient history of Russia. The conception was said to have 
displayed great genius, but every thing was in the pageantry. 

The nearest resemblance to this imperial show is, I conceive* 
the historical dramas of Shakspeare ; but I do not recollect of 
hearing that the Empress introduced any dialogue. 

In imitation, however, of the imperial spectacle, the subse* 
quent scenes have been thrown together, in which something 
like the rhythm of the great English poet is attempted, with the 
sequence of the sort of actions which her Majesty probably 


I am not aware that any dramatic show exactly of the same kind 
has yet been made. The action may be said to be national, as it 
is altogether superior to the passions of individuals. I therefore 
offer the Ck>nque8t of France, not so much as a play as a spec« 
tacle, the object of which is to exhibit a cyde of history. In 
fact^ I have long thought the stage, especially those of the great 
theatres, adapted for a more gorgeous exhibition than the com» 
mon dramatic tales, and I wish my essay to be ccmsidered 
entirely of this description* A further illustration of what I 
CQaedye may be introduioed, is stated in the prefiMie to the 
Star of Destmy, in my Autobiogn^hy. 


Edwabd III. 
The Black Pbince. • 
John of Francb. 
Aetois. • 

Cardinal Tallyrand op Perigord,. 


Bishop of London. 

Sib Thomas Nobwich. 

Sib Walteb Manny. 

Sib John de Vienne, 

Sib Eustace de Rebeaumont. 

300 characters, 

Lord James Auolet. 
Godfrey de Mxldis. 

Queen Fhilippa, 
' Lady Salisbury, 

MuteSf Soldiers^ Ladies^ ^c. 

[ 801 ] 




A Garden^ Merton College^ Oa^ord. 
Godfrey ds Mildis ait J Ashendok, Asbrotogers. 

Ash^ I saw it burning near Orion's belt^ 
Redly malignant, and it threw around 
A dim and ominous dishevell'd light. 

God. But are you sure it was no meteor, 
No kindled vapour of the lower air ? 

Adi, I marked it well— Behold the clouds unclose. 
And it appears. 

God. A most portentous star I 

Ash. What think you, sir? 


God. Such dread phenomena 
Come not to vision in our nether world. 
Without eventful issue. Lo I again 
The AqoAs thick dosing hide it frcm our sight. 

Ash. Sure some new energy's at work in nature ;-^ 
The willow-trees, thougk by the« winter bared. 
Have cloth'd their boughs with blossoms like the rose. 
And the hedge-elder, "for its dingy berries. 
Bends with untimely loads of crimson fruit — 
Can you interpret what such things portend? 

God. These prodigies, and rumours among men 
Of dark debates, with secret messengers 
Afoot, and busy with the ihoughts of kings, 
Show that the age is apt and ripe for wonders* 
But to my study, for the winter air 
Comes chilling from the s3ent flowing Iss, 
And stiffens with distemperM aches the joints. 

^* yBxemi. 


SC£NE 11. 

Council Chamber. 

King Edward III., Artois^ Norfolk, Keni!^ 
Bishop of London, Nevil, SalisburYi jrc 

King. Cousin Artds, we pray you here disclose 
Those things which late in private conference 
You did impart to us, touching our claim 
And birthright to the monarchy of France. 

Artois. My sovereign Hege, for by that title now 
I do pro&ss th' allegiance due to you—* 
Though by the SaHque Law, no female heir 
May claim accession to the crown of France, 
Yet Iteirs of females are not therefore barr'd, 
And thence your right — for when the old king died. 
Your royal mother was the next of kin. 

'Ming. And which^ but for our nonage, and the 
. hindrance 
Bred by th' unsettled state of England then. 
We had asserted with pur utmost power. 


Artois. But my high-minded countrymen were 
To think that France, imperial from of old. 
Who never own'd superior, should become 
But as a part and pendicle of England, 
For such, you King, they dreaded would ensue—* 
And to avert the shame and degradation, 
Install'd your kinsman Philip on the throne. 
The which he, like a recreant tisui)[)er. 
Contemning those that gave him dignity, 
Holds with a humour so tyrannical. 
That all of us who did betray the law. 
Repent the treason which we then committed. 
And now implore you, as our rightful king. 
To claim the crown by your ancestral rights* 

Nor. But then that Philip has so long possess'd 
The rule and sovereignty, that men have grown 
Habitual in obedience to his sway. 
This enterprise to which Artois incites. 
Seems fraught with danger and of doubtful issue ; 
Nor is it just that England's blood should flow. 
To vindicate the ravish'd laws of France. 
If you and other factious of your land 


Have, in 4espite of justice, so betray*d 
IT^e true pretensions of yomr lineal lord, 
What Iptve we heie to do with yomr misdeeds? 

Kent. Nothing, good Norfolk ; that is their affair*-^ 
But the just claims of our own liege to France, 
We, as his subjects, and as vassals true. 
Are by our homage and allegiance bound. 
To the last effort of our means and life, 
For ever to maintain. 

Sishqp qf London. It were rank sin 
To see the profanation of a right. 
Without re^sting its predominance. 
The act of doing ill is seldom ill. 
It is the after*fSruitage and effect 
Which makes it ill — and thus it is with France. 
This breach in the succession of her kings 
Is treason to the welfare of the world ; 
For if we let such usurpation thrive, 
We licensije every bold aspiring man 
To storm the seat of power, and thence inflame 
Worse anarchy upon the trembling earth 
Than what the thunderbolts of Jove allayed. 
When iHie huge Titans scaled th' Olympian hill, 

VOL* II. 2 c 

ddfi 1S» CONaUSKT or FKASCK ^A X 

Eebellious to the Gods* ^Hs not fbr ^pw. 
Nor for King Edward*6 right, mnst Engtond snn^ 
But for the wrongs of France against iMsrsel4 
rAnd for the safety of the social state* 

J&7m7. Do you, my Lord of London, oounset war ? 
You that should pacify the fierce, intents 
Of secular ambition ? 

Bishop. In tMs, Lord Neril, 
I do but counsel to maintain the right 
Against oppre»don. When the bad insult 
The time-applauded state of dvil man, 
Why do we arm Ae law's dread officers ? 
Wherefore confer we with the ermine gpwa^ 
That godlike and sublime authority^ 
By which our judges may cons%n to deadly 
But that there is essential on the eardii 
A principle of right, more predous £ur 
Than individual Kfe ? 'Tis not fw war. 
The soldier's passion and the poetf s ibeme^ 
I speal[ — but such assertion of the powsr 
Which Hea¥en has on his Majesty bestow'd^ 
As shall 'destroy in the engemdenng^ 
Those greater woes Affn aU dus woes of woi;^ 

. £kttme IL « SiUB COVaU£fiT OS* FRAKCfi. - ftB7 

Which most ennie if carder be iufnnged. 

There is vith nadons, as with priyate mea^ 

An order'd Bystem of ooimnunity ; 

And as the man who steab his neighbour's goods 

Is justfy' panii^'d by his country's law« 

So 'tis with kingdoms \ for I do maiataiii 

The God of natare hath so settled i^ 

That as na man in his domestic sphere 

May trench unponish'd on his neighbour's rights • 

Nations may. n^t so modify themselves 

As to endanger the eontigaoiis States, > 

WUhoat some general sanction first allow'd. 

This usurpation of the throne of France 

We know is ill, because it doth provoke 

The angry sjorit of contentious councils. 

Lords, we aarehere at midnight all convened 

By the strong stirring of its dire eflfectS| 

And eaamcrt'now but choose to draw the swords 

The h^h compulsion of insulted law 

Urges U9 m^ and claims frcMoa ub as me% 

The vindiQi^iuaa of its taveU'd precepts. ^ : 

Kent. It well becomes you, venerable hnd^ 
To show to us the etil in liie cause,! 
But ^)>|dn flc^ifieis, tx^r\ that )but eoiDrae ; \ 


The warrants which you counsellors send forth 
Agsdnst delinquent nations, may not scan 
The rules and principles that govern you. 
*Tjia not our province to investigate. 
We are the hands but of the kipgdom's body^ 
Ye are the head, the cogitative brain, 
And we must do as your volitions move. 
The sin, the guiltiness, must lie with you ; 
Therefore, my liege, consult these wise men well. 
And then, whatever their decisions be. 
Command us to perform, and we will do. 

King.-^ Well said, brave Kent, we like your valiant 
counsel ; 
But, ere advancing in so dread a suit, 
'Tis fit the point of right should be set clear. 
And therefore, lords, awhile let us adjourn. 
And you, stern statesmen, guardians of our realm, 
Find out the right, that we may act with justice. 

Sematn Salisbury and Nevil. 

Nevil. You seem troubled, Salisbury. Think you 
t this 
Vmi lead to rupture and hostility ? 

SaL It think not of it. In my heart I feeV 


A deeper anguish than the wounds of war. 
The king too often visits at my house ; 
I cannot think that were my wife less fair. 
He would so privily intrude that honour* 

Nevil. The noble virtues of your peerless lady 
Shobld save you from all jealousy and doubt. 

Sat^ I do not doubt her : Heaven forbid I should ! 
I could not, if I would, suspect her faith ; 
But it doth grieve me that in his green years. 
When all the world expects he will perform 
Some noble part for England's weal and glory, 
He should submit thus to a blameful passion. 

NevU. Has 'he in love yet spoken with the Countess ? 

Sal. Not yet ; but daily she expects he will, 
For oft he seeks pretence to walk with her, 
And ever when they are apart together, 
He looks as^ if he would his soul divulge. 
But still, as dreading that he might offend, 
He leads her back with seeming levity ; 
But scarcely there, some new pretext he finds 
To draw her forth again* Daily he thus 
The ardent symptoms of his love discovers^ 

NevU. This delicacy gives me hope* 

Sal. And me* 


'Nedl. When he will speak, as doabdesB mxhi he 
The Countess should her influence as6er€» 
And by her sway o*er his admiring fcHndness^ 
Exsit his sensual thoughts to nobler aims.— 
Propitious Fate makes him lore such a woman $ 
\ Few else had so endured a monarch's passion ; 
But she will be the pride of English dam^ 
The honour and example of her sex. 
As famed Cornelia, or the wife of Brutus. 
But 4some, my lord, the night is &r advanced ; 
Long since I heard the Abbey dock chime tbtees» 
And I am weary with this late debftte, \EaKMaU 


A Qatdm. 

King vnd an Officer* 
King. Has the Lord Salisbury yet left tl^ palace ? 
Off. Not yet. 

King. Goy»ek Jdmoixt; defeunhiinke^ '^ 
If he enquire for me^ say Fm abed* . • [E^ ^ifcer. 

Seaie IV. TUE COSQUEST OF ntAVOB* . 311 

'Tis now the stiUest and the daiiest hour* 

Good men skep well, and gentle innocence^ 

Wn^ in sofi: dreams, smiles as it sleq>s ; 

Only the wretch whom sinfiil thou^ts incite 

Steals from his couch like Jt perturbed ghosts 

And snch am I, that, nigktiy tfans nnseen^ 

Sigh my unhallowed wishes at the door 

Of lovefy Salisbury* In absence, still 

Irreverent fondness makes me bold to speak ; 

But in her presence dwells such chastity, 

That I am awed, aaad from a lover turn 

A lowly and adorio^ worshlppn:. 

A light I and, lo I the lovely saint heiself. 

Like the bright angd of the morning star 

Beaming with radiance, ap'pears behind* [ExU. 


A Eoam in Lord Salisbury's Jiouse. A tcindow open. 
A tabu with UghU* 

Lady Salisbury cmd kucwL 
Lady S. Some solemn ibinnesw hoUm the eooncil 
late. - . 


Alice. It has broke up ; more than an hour ago 
The Lords of Kent and Norfolk left thetx)urt. 

Lady S. Thou art mistaken, Alice, else thy master 
Had been at home before. 

Alice. I saw them pass. 
The servants carried lights, and 'mong them rose 
Saucy revilings, for some Bishop's men 
Claimed precedence of those before the Lords. 

[A knocking heard. 

Lady S* Hark f see who knocks. — {Exit Alice.) 

Why should I be thus moved ? 

Why should my heart misgive, because my Iprd 

Thus lingers in his coming ? Oft the king 

Has made me fearful that he seeks my love. 

•But I do wrong his high and noble nature. 

To think my Salisbury's no longer safe ; 

And yet the servants nightly have discovered 

A muffled stranger lurking near the door, 

And holy writ, in good Uriah's fete. 

Declares of old how heaven's anointed king 

\Enter King Edward. 
Ha I the king here I 

King* Are you afiraid of me ? 

Lady S. Where is my husband ? 


King. O, look not so wild. 

Lady S. Where b Lord Salisbury, that at this 
So .like the odious Tarquin you intrude? 

King. He's safe, 

Latfy S. How I safe ! 

fCing. Detained still at the palace. 

Lady S. What guilty purpose brings your Highness 
That I at seeing you, should thus forget 
The dues and honours of your royal state. 
And dare to fear my husband's life endanger'd ? 

King. Oh I tell me, then, why am I thus enthralled ?* 
The minstrel's song reminds me of thy voice ; 
The poet's melody, thy sweeter sense ; 
Even sacred orisons that raise the soul 
From earth to heaven, but serve to warm my thought^ 
With the blest images of thy perfections. 

Lady S. Repress, my gracious lord, these fond 
Rise, rise — Oh ! shame ! it is a most strange sin ! 
That he to whom all others should so kneel^ 
Should stoop in basaness, and for guill^ to me. 

VOL. II. 2d 


I do conjure you, sir, by your dread trust. 
To save your honour from this sinful stain. 
Do you forget ? I am Lord Salisbury's wife ! 

King. Oh I happy Salisbury 1 blessed on eartlL 
In these sweet lips with a diviner draught 
Than Hebe in the nectar pouts for Jove ! 

Lady S. If thus the king will so forget himself. 
Hie subject's duty «ids. I would cry " help !** 
But in the sacred presence of the king 
I should be safe from outrage. 

King. Noble woman ! 
Yes, you are safe. He that so vex'd yotff hearing', 
^ith a rash proffer of unrighteous passion, 
"Was a fond fool, urged by his nature*s frailty, 
And not the king — ^not I, that will protect. 
Yes, your insulted virtue : Edward the king 
Will the offending rash Hantagenet, 
Even to the utmost of his power, pursue. 
To satisfy your wrong. Say, what shall be 
His punishment ? 

X«r^ S. That which should make 
Him in the suffering worthy of all love, 
And without hope, believe he may have mine. 


—Your cUdms on France are an aspiring call, 
From the great god of war, to break the chain 
With which the slothful Cupid would defraud 
The hope and expectation of the time. 

King. It shall be so. Yes, thou ennobling woman^ 
By thee inspir'd beyond what poets tell 
Of Juno or of Pallas' inspiration, 
In the fam'd story of the Trojan town, 
I will attempt to earn the glorious meed ; 
And the remembrancer of this bright night. 
In court and camp to keep me to my vow, 
Bhall grow so &mau8 as the badge of greatness, 
That mightiest monarchs, in heroic trittanphy 
Shall hope to gain it as the test of worth. 


[ 316 J 


A Hall in the Palace^ 

Queen Philippa and the Black Prince. 

Queen. My dearest boy, though with a motherV 
I see thee going where the monster War 
Yearns .to engorge the gallant and the brave, 
I would not hold thee from encountering him. 
But, to the reach of my poor wit, endeavour 
So to instruct thee to deport thyself, 
That every mother who may hear thy name. 
If thou shouldst fall, shall, with a noble envy. 
Wish, as she weeps, to lose her son like mine* 

Prince. And if I earn those honours I desire. 
And come, dear mother, safely back again, 


My tame shall prove that your ennobling precepts 
Did make n^e worthy to be call'd your son. 

Queen. O heavens I why is it that my heart should 
Thus at the parting with a child so dear. 
And these fond drops that thicken in my sight, 
Be. more in pleasure than in sorrow shed ? 

Prince. 'Tia a good omen, mother^ and the thought 
Shall, as a ray straight darting from the sky, 
Gild every vapour of the gloomiest day. 

Queen. Princes, ordain'd the models of mankind^ 
YTin their best honours by their soldiership ; 
Therefore, my Edward, study to excel, 
But not in that obstrep'rous bravery. 
Which, with the noblest actions, oft offends 
The gentle sense of virtue in the wise. 
The soldier should be as the steel he bears. 
Quick, trusty, but serene ; so will his honour 
Be as its polish, wip'd of battle stains. 
Brighter and brighten'd by each stern probation. 
And in the social hour, the hour of peace. 
Let it be sheath'd in modest courtesies ; 
But chief o'er all, when, at the close of day. 

318 THE CDiraiTBST 09 rWLXMCXU Aci IL 

Long^ dubiouft tictory at last coasfntt 
To crown Ids tdl, let Iiim be then a man^ 
And, with a mild and merdfal denial^ 
Recall the hounds of slaughter from the chase. 
And think that Justice, which bestows suocess, 
Relents in pity for the suff 'ring foe* 

JPrince* Haik I 'tis the trumpet, and they wait Sot 

Queen. Adieu^ dear Edward ! Hearen be <m thjr 

Prince. And I be worthy of the awful aid* [Exeimh 

The Council Chamber. 

King Edward on his Throne, and Nobles seated., 

King. This matter settled, and our style of Frftnco 
With customary heralding proclaim'd^ 
See you, my lords, duly performed* Acbul; 
The Cardinal* Now wonld we hear whi^ Bsntmst 


The holy &ther arndg from Avignont 

Touching the late lesioitstrance 'gainst those grants 

Of benefices in our kingdom given 

By him to aliens, strangers to our laws^ 

Averse to us by prejudice of bloody 

And who, though to the stinting of ourselveSy 

Pamper'd to insolence, yet still deny, 

By thoae same mouths with which they feed cm us. 

The worth and honour of the English name. 

JEnter the Cardinal^ ^c* 
My good Lord Cardinal, we give you welcome^ 
Assured that you^t of whose surpasdng meekness 
We have an oft and grateful rumour heard. 
Must to the missives of our Parliament 
A meet and gracious acquiescence bring 
In the paternal answer of the Pope* 
Card. The benediction apostolical 
Of the most holy father be on you» 
Lord Edward King of England. Greeting well. 
He bade us say that those new CaxdinalSf 
Whom to augment the glory of the Chvtch 
He hath of late.c9eated» should receive 


Due means and aliments i?herewith t' uphold 

The state and custom of their dignity. 

For thisi with righteous and paternal care, 

Judging how best to levy the impost 

From sundry realms, the Church's proyinces, 

He did apportion monies to be drawn, 

And benefices to be set apart^ 

But which in England with rebellious clamour 

Was utterly denied, and all his officers 

Upon that pious mission hither sent 

Were rudely banish'd, frustrate of their request. 

This odious treason, dire as heresy. 

The Pope still, as a kindly father sees 

His children err, doth tenderly remit. 

Trusting your Grace will, mindful of his goodness, 

Forthwitfi the rash refusal interdict, 

And with a filial faithfulness procure 

The due observance of the Pope's decree 

Within the realm of England. 

Edward. Good, my lord. 

— Report this solemn answer back firom us, 
That we, Edward the King, do greet his Holiness 
With pious hissings of his sacred feet. 


Tell him, it gladdens us to hear how much 

He, in the watch-tower of the Zion hill 

And apostolic mountain, thus devises 

Increase of glory to the Church of Christ ; 

For doubtless he hath with those carnal means, 

Those monies and advowsons set apart, 

Which are but agents of the sensual flesh, 

A spirit-stirring reformation made. 

And searched himself to cure those eating wounds. 

Those ulcerous sores, that pamper'd surfeit breeds 

Within the frame ecclesiastical. 

%£ this be done, he may well call on us 

To aid his high and godly purposes. — 

My good Lord Cardinal, we will no more 

That in the business of the Pope's decree 

The realm of England be again disturbed. 

High claims are on us, and we must be hence 

To combat with that insolent usurper 

Who now withholds our monarchy of France. 

—My Lord of London and his Grace the Primate 

Will see your Eminence safely embark'd. 

I pray you, lords, let him experience well 

That ready andent hospitality 

Which is the stranger's due. 

322 THK CaiTQUEST OF F&ANGI. jia 221 

[Exeunt Cabdinal^ CAirrBRBUiiTy tmd LoKixoir* 
What thiiik you, lords P 
Were it not meet in these impending waxs,. 
That we should ratber from the well-^ed abbeys 
Draw aid and furtherance to relieve our subjects ? 

Northam. Your H%hness wisely hath diae^m'd in it* 

Edward. Did not our grandfather, so &m'd for 
Confiscate once the wealdi of alien priors. 
And the possesions of the elunicks seise. 
To aid his drain'd exchequer? Answer me. 

Northam. It had been fitter for these reverend 
Than for us laics, prone, 'tis said, to speak 
Invidiously of holy mother Churdu 
But she again has repossessed herself 
Of all that precious wealth. 

Edward. Cousin, yo« err. 

The Church, as these her bishops can declare,, 
Does not in perpetuity possess it; 
But only, like that consecrated treasure. 
Which the sfout Romans, in dieir days of virtue^ 
Shrin'd in the Capitol for war with Gaul, 


Keeps it prepared against the exigent* 

The state again may to itself lechdm 

The providaitial treasures. See it done^ 

For war inevitable vdth the Gaol 

Impends around, and we must now to France, 

Where wait the choicest flpirits of the realm 

To reap renown and glorious victory. \Ex€wU. 


The Quay qf Dover m 

Archbishop of Canterbury, Bishop q/'London^ 
and Cardinal. 

Card. Brother of London, what you say is tme^ 
And so I shall report it to the Pope. 
There is, indeed, as I myself have noted, 
A headstrong and knperious temperament 
In the proud natures of your countrymen, 
Which makes^them, if they have not war abroad. 
To feshion mischirffor themselves at home. 

Arch. Add, too, that they are prone to sift for 


And, rather than forego a wonted usage 
At the command of highest seated power, 
They would, up to the shoulders, fight in blood. 

Bishop. And yet, my good Lord Cardinal, Ipray y ou 
Say, when they are content, — ^but, mark me well, 
Content, believing it is wise to be so, — 
They wUl endure such voluntary pressure, 
That tyranny itself will first relent 
And yield, admiring their most gen'rous patience. 

Card. But in their insolent deport to strangers. 
That proud conceit of their superior worth 
O'er all who tread their island from tlie sea, 
A seed of danger to the papal sway 
Swells into growth and fruitage. • ' 

Bishop. True, my lord. 
TI\erefore it well befits his Holiness 
To breathe the meekness of his past'ral love 
Towards the fold of England. Sooth to say. 
The wrath and thunder that may elsewhere awe. 
Will here but startle and disperse the flock* 

Card* I like their noble arrogance, my Lord. 
Oh I I am pain'd, and to the heart embitter'd. 
When I look on your gallant islanders. 
So rife of valour, gen'rous in their hate. 


Jealous of right, and in distress majestici 
And think that those who tread the Roman soilf 
Breathing the air of Scipios and of Csesars, 
Should be so shrunk in their integrity. 
That we must use with them but wily craft. 
My Lord of London, I will tell the Pope, 
That England is a land of men untamed, 
fierce as their jealous curs at strangers' footing, 
And fsdthfiil, too, as them to those that trust them, 

ArcK How now, my lord I such speech would 
better suit 
The grim robustness of our steel-clad barons. 
Than the calm prudence of the scarlet gown. 

Card. If that my fate, or that which has controird it. 
Had not compell'd me to put on this gown, 
And whine meek resignation, my firm heart 
Had own'd the influence of your English ur. 
And heard the God of battles call to arms. 
But see, the signal that the tide now serves — 
I must on hoBxA — I'll tell to France and Rome, 
That Edward comes, and England, blithe in war^ 
Has high presentiments of glorious things. 


Arch* You riioald have beoi a soldier. 

Card. Would have been, 
Had Heairen bestow'd me on your niartial isle. 
But, my good lord 

Bishop^ Adiea, Lord Cardinal, 
Who for tlie crosier would take the sword 
And dare grim danger in ibe tented field. 
May you not find faer on the billowy sea I 
But gently, as the holy priestly life. 
Be safe your passage to the Calais diore. [Epoeunt. 


The Field ofCressg. 

Black PaxNCE, Yf AnwioL^. and Jrmy^ 
Prince. Now bid the bowmen use ikcor atonteftt 
And to the head tisdr l>oked arrows dxBw« 
The strength of EngBshmen lies in llienranns; 
Let it give life to every twangii^^ strntg. 


— Behind Lord Warwick see the faeaTens fiown 
Full in the faces of the fated foe* 
fiaik ! heaven's own thunder rattles on cna side. 
Ylkni birds are these ? 

Wcurmck. The corbie and die Tolture* 

They are the soldieis^ sextons, and 'tis said 
Their eager sense of carnage is so keen, 
"Hiat fliey foreknow the issues of a fight. 

Prince* If so, they fly propitious to our oause ; 
For see, they follow where the archers aim. 
Another shower, my gallant countrymen. 

Warwick^ See where the enemy now near upon us. 

Prijice. My horse ; Lord Mowbray, you attend 
the £bg. [Exk Prmee. 

Mwter "ffie Kikg. 
Mowbray. This is, my lord, the order of the field. 
Northam. Whom has your i^;Imess stationed with 

Edward. The Earl of Warwick ajid Sir John 
They are his masters, and will teach the boy 
To learn liie tceaft iff winning victories. 


With them are Oxford, Normandy, and Stafford, 
Lord Burgerst, and that lion's whelp, his son. 
— How now. Sir Thomas Norwich, what's the news? 
Sir Thomas. Lord Cobham, and the odiers widi 
, the Prince, 
Are vigorously by the whole French beset, 
And ask your Majesty to come to them. 
Edward, Is my son dead ? Is he unhorsed, good 

Sir Thomas* No, heaven be praised, he prosper 

in the battle. 
Edward. Then go. Sir Thomas, back to those that 
sent you, 
. And tell them from me, not to send again. 
— Say I command them that they let the boy 
Deserve his knighthood — Ha, what means that cry I 

Enter Warwick. 
Wartjuich The wonted standard of the King of 
Is not display'd, but in its place he shows 
The golden flame. 
Edward. And what does that import ? 


JVarmdi. '/Tis said Saint Denis from an angel 
got it, 
And that whenever Frenchmen fight beneath it» 
They must not spare their foes. 

Edward. 'Twas a bad angel 

Xhat would so consecrate to cruelty. 

Enter Mowbray* 
Lord Mowbray, have you heard the King of France 
Has spread the Oriflam, the flag of death ? 
Mjmbray. I have, my lord. 
Edward. Then furl Saint George's cross. 

And give our bloody dragon to the breeze ; 
Advance it to the van — another charge. 

fVanvick. The rout is general. The usurper flies. 

[Enter the Peince, with the King of Bohe- 

mid 8 helmet^ attended. The trumpets sound 

a victory i and the King, and all^ piously 


Edward. My gallant Ned, the Heavens are pleased 

with thee. 
Frince. My gracious sire 

VOL. II. 2 £ 


Edward. 'Titold Bdiemia'a^ 

Is he your prisoner ? 

JPriMct. Alailmy knl, 

The royal veteran lies with the dead* 

JEdward. He was a noble soldier, though our Sm^ 

Prince. Nor was his death u&wardiy of his famtt z 
Though age-enfeebled, and though almost blind. 
The din of battle did «0 rouse his heart, 
That, with the beavest of his eaptaias girt, 
He met his death before ^ fight was won ; 
For Victory seem'd, whUe the old soldier fooght^ 
Beluctant upon younger casques to light, 
She had so often setded upon his* 

Edward. And may Ae evtr to it still t«tura. 
For thou shalt wear it, and this triple plume, 
The royal trophy here at Cressy woii, 
Shall, long as England*s heir is Prince of Wales, 
Crest the bright characters of victory.— 
Now, with such pomp as suits the warrior's bier. 
Convey the noble dead to Mountenay, 
And in the monastery there bestow them. 
Thus shall we teach posterity unbotD^ 


England leverei tke famed aad fiiUen brave ; 
But we most nmlct the stubborn Calaismeo* 



The walls of Calais^ 

Sir John be Yiekne on the tmlls tvith Citizens. 
Sir Walter Manny tvith the English troops. 

Sir Walter Manny. Good John de Vieone, 'tis our 
King's intent^ 
That you, aod all witbin the bounda of CabuS} 
Submit to his discretion. 

Jofm de Vienne {on the walls). Cruel terms. 
And hard to us, who, for our loyalty, 
IJad hoped fi>r nobler courtesy from him* 
We are, Sir Walter, but a little band, 
True to our honour and our monarch's tzwt. 
And rather, air, than yield to such demaxuk. 
We'll perish fighting* 


Enter Ebward, attended. 

Edward. .^--Maiiny, what say they ? 

« iS^ir Walter. Rather than yield on terms indefinite. 
They are determined still to keep the town. 

Edward. Then let them suffer for't. . 

Sir Walter. Good, my liege Lord, 

But they have nobly, as brave soldiers should, 
Maintained themselves. 

Edward. Manny, they should be taught. 

That even valour may have its excess — 
But to the Governor again, and say, 
That if he send me six of the best burghers 
With ropes about their necks, here with the keys, 
We shall forget the trouble they have caused. 

[Sir Walter Manny goes to the Governor. 

Enter Queen Philippa and Ladies. 
Edward. My dear Philippa — ^welcome to the camp. 
Sweet ladies all, we give a soldier's greeting. 
And now, what tidings of our northern friends ? 
How fare the Scots, that in our absence dared 
To break upon your widow-like forlomness ? 


Philippa. The King of Scotland, with his noblest 
Are prisopers to your Highness. 
Edward. Ha — ^hownow? 

Sir Walter Manny comes Jbruoard. 
Sir Walter. My lord, the Calais townsmen on 
the walls 
Announce compliance with your stem request. 
Eustace St Pierre, and other worthy five 
Of the best burghers — Burghers, said I ? 
'MejjL who for this should, to the end of time, 
Be chronicled among the worthiest heroes. 

[_The citizens on the walls — bells tolling — the 
six enter with ropes and the keys. 
Eustace St Pierre. There, at your feet, we lay the 

keys of Calab, 
And freely give ourselves to your dread pleasure. 

PhiUppa. My gracious lord, let me, without offence, 
Plead for the lives of these most virtuous men ; 
Here, on my knees, I earnestly entreat thee 
To be to thy great character as true 
As when we parted. Oh, my gracious lord, 

384 THE CONQVB8T 07 FRAKCS, AidtlE. 

I^ za thiae fdbflence^ Knglanri hath addeved. 
By the good valour of her dvil sons, 
Trophies as glorious as thme ovni in Fianoe^ 
Thiiik,diese heave merchants, who submit themsdi^iS^ 
Feel in their hearts the spirit of renown 
Stirring them up, and by thy pardon show 
That thou dost knre the man-exalting flame^ 
Reg^dless of the garb. The richest gems 
In the roc^ casing of the ro^y mine 
Are still as predoua as the polish'd stones. 
That glitter in thine own proud diadem. 
Think in these men you see high-minded soktisrsy 
And treat them as the high and honoiur'd braye» 
Whom to respect, augments thy own lenown. 
Edward. To such sweet {heading I ean but con- 
sent — 
Hise, my Philippa, you have ransom'd th^n. 
Here, Warwick, take the keys, and with Lord S«ff<irik 
Prepare the citizens for our reception. 


[ 334 ] 



A Chamber. 

Bishop of London aind Warwick. 

BUkop. Soaie dreadful flin is surely rife ainoii^ us^ 
That thus the wrath of Hearen comes down so <fire ; 
Is there tio remedy? 

War. Alas, art feOs ; 

All other maladies, tibe foes of life, 
Seem banish'd from the world, for this dread plague 
Hath of itself engrossM Death's armouries, 
And is itsdf die Death* 'Tis as if Heaven 
Did now repent the making of mankind. 
All ties of love and kindred are dissolved ; — 
VWves fly Aeir husbands, and when mothers see 
TOie plague-spot reddening on their cradled babes. 


Theyi screaming, shun them as their doom and fate. 

The priests deny the comforts of religion ; 

The courts are empty, and accusers come not ; 

The jailor has abandon'd all his doors. 

And in the prison men most innocent 

League with tried felons, and will not be free — 

So much, without, the horror reigns and rages. 

{Bett tolls. 

Bishop. Hark! 

Wca-. 'Tis the deatli-bell r 

Bishop. Strange ! its dismal sound 

Seems like the news of a great battle won. 
It hath so long hung silent. Awful thought 
That we should gladden thus to hear it toll. 
And welcome back as old familiar Mends, 
The frenzied fever, atrophy, all ails 
That once were deem'd the enemies of life. 

War. But come, 'tis meet that we set on for 
We are expected at the council there. 

Bishop. Vain are our councils to contend with 
Heaven. [Exeunt. 



A Room. 

Edward ctnd Counsellors. 

Edw. Sir Walter Manny, bear theM to my 8on^ 
And say I will not to this John of France 
£v'n in one tittle of our claim relax. 
liVhat though his father Philip di^d poegess'd 
Of our hereditary lawful throne ? 
The hold, that we ccmtested in his time 
Cannot grow stronger by the course df age. 

Nor. Aad yet, my liege, time, that, with all thtngs^ 
Saps and consumes, establishes a throne ; 
And he now seated in the state of France, 
Hath so much stronger a pretenee ito it 
Than the osuiper that refused your right, 
By being but diat false usurper's son ; 
And each wiio c( Im line may hence svleeeed, 
Will strong and stronger find his rig^t eoitim'd. 

VOL. II. 2 F 


— The power of kings is like the mighty oak, 
Which, on its sprouting from the genial soil. 
The slightest breathing of the random wind 
May easily destroy ; but grown to head. 
The root struck deep, its branches in the air. 
It braves defiance to the roaring storm. 
And yields but to the thunderbolt of heavea. 

Enter the QueeK. 

Queen, I would, your Highness, if the time allows. 
Entreat awhile your leisure. 

Edw. Leave us, lords. 

My Lord of Norfolk, come at supper time. 
We teould discottrse with you upon these matters. 

[Exeiimt XiOrds* 
Now, gentle Philippa, we are your own — 
Gome, you have worn these woeful looks too long* 
To-day we have glad news ; throughout the realm 
The wasteful pestilence has staid its course, 
And the blest sound of bell at burial tolFd 
Has been resumed; the doctors too report 
That ancient maladies again return. 


Queen. But, my dear lord, I bring you heavy 
tidings : 
The good Locd Salisbury ■ 

EdM)» I heard of i^ 

And he died happily— a noble man-— 
His natural worth s6 jsoited withliis rank^ 
That he was bom to be what he has been; 
The court in him has lost an ornament, 
The state a treasure, and the poor a fiiend* 

Queen. And his fair lady— w 

Edw. Ah I my good Philippa^ 

Let no injurious ihoughts of her molest. 
I lov'd her fondly— need I blush to own it? 
The time has been that you might havB been .sad 
To think Lord Salisbury dead. But trust me^love^ 
There is for jealousy no shadow now. 

Queen» Alas, my dearest lord, I k&ow 'tis so^ 
For beauteous Salisbury lies with her lord. 

Edw. What I dead? 

Queen. Alas I 

Edw. Come you to try my truih? 

^ueen. Oh, gradous Edward, do myaiature justice^ 
I have no sinister intent in Uns; 


For though I knew I had not all yoot heart, 
I would not that the world should know the share 
That lovely Salisbury withheld from me. 
I grudge not» Edward, that thy tears should flow. 
For in this moment'! melting sympathy, 
Methinks I £^1 at if I had recdved 
The holy mildness of my rival's natare, 
. Dropp'd like th^ prophet's mantle from the sky. 

Edw. And it does so with more excelling yirtc» : 
For, from this hour, I must to thine own worth — 
Thy p^ent medisiess, studious aim to please, ^ 
With all the gentle graoes of a wife^--^ 
See join'd ^hat chatm'd me in the holy dead. 

QtMn. Blest momeht! recompense for many a 
v^ .:ciwet ^ - . \E(Mimt. 


The Field ofPoictiers^ - 

John of France, Cardinal, and French nobles^ . 

Jbbi 4/* -J^^^BttM^* We will clmstise this hanghty 
Prince of Wales, * 

JSeene IIL . THS CONQUBST or francs, 341 

TVho is so fond of rapine, and of war^ 
And to the throat and bo8om of our France^ 
So eggs his ruihlesa Uoodhounds* Swift, my lord^ 
Convey these summonses to your bold peers, 
To come with all their vassals fit for war ; 
These island cms shall crouch beneath Our ven- 

Ckar. Let not your Majesty war for revenge, 
But in the arming of your kingdom's strength, 
Be peace the motive, and defence the. aim. 

jr. John. Seek they for peace, my good Lord 
Who thus with trampling insolence advance. 
Trenching the just pretensions of our right ? 
Rather, Lord Cardinal, than be thus questioned^ 
How now, De Rebeaumont, what is their force ? 

Enter Sia Eustace db RsBXAUjioiiT. - 
Sir Eustace. Two tibonsand men at arms, double 

And fifteen thousand loot, we think, they number. 
Car. Good fiien, your Graop, awhile withhold Ae 

sword, . 


So small a number dare not cope with France f 
Offer them terms before uncertain war. 

K. John. If they accept 

Car^ You conquer without loss. 

K. John* Should they refuse 

Car. . You have the vantage still, 

With all the aids expected from your summons. 

K* John. We like your counsel, reverend Perigood ; 
And that our threats may not prove empty vaunting. 
We will &e present levies stUl enforce [Exeunt. 

Another part of the Field near Poictiers. 

The Black Prince — Warwick. 

Piince of Wakg. Hear you. Lord Warwick, that 
the. French have moved. 
Passing the Loire at Orleans, Tours, and Saumur ? 
. Warwichn 'Tis so reported, and our foragers 
Say that th^ country is so scour'd by theirs,, 
They find no more supply. 


I^rincem Heard you their strength ? 

Warwick. In m^n-at-aims they number twenty 

PHnce. So many I 

Warwick^ And their foot past computation ; 

Besides the wing that cross'd at Chatelherault, 
Full sixty thousand horse come with the King. 

Prince^ And let them come, the &te depends on 
Who to the swiftest may the race deny^ 
And battle to the strong. What news, Lord Suffolk? 

EnUr Suffolk.. 
'" Sjiffolh. A message from the enemy. 

Prince. So near? 

SuffcHk. They are encamping on the fields beyond 
The town of Poictiers. All the country awarms 
With the emblazonry of noble bankers, 
And earth grows gorgeous as yon westward sky, • 
That glows and kindles with the setting sun. ' 

PKqc^k There's a good omen in thy simile ; 
.The yapours shine but round the tyrant's.setting.* 
Who are the messengers ? 

^44 3BS co^WMart of vsancji. . AciJIL 

SujffbK. That subtle cliiiidimaji> 

Caidiiial TaUyrand of Foigwd^ 
He that was once in England. 

Prince. Bzing hiift in* 

Wbat think yoa» Warwick ? With so gxeat an odds» 
May we defend oiuasehreBy or shookl we radier 
With ready afiquiescenoe mmI their tenna? 

Wormkk. ItistkeqjnilofoiirieountiyiBcai . 
To grow more haughty with adverslQry 
And generoua wiih goflceaB. ThereEQi% mj lei4» 
LetonrdcmeaDQiimTecify our blood. 

Enter Camdwai^ aitended. 
Prince, yf^oome, Lord Cardinall we sett l»fpQ 
The lainiatar of good-will and of peace, 
i Car. Heaven's blestingi «nd the comfinrtiBg of 

Descend upon my sm I 

JVaf^ Amen I 

War^ So shall We pro^)er in the cMdflg fl|^ 
Cat. If you^ my lord^ bave well theodds eomputed^ 

JStemeir. THX CONQUZ8T OF nuKCB* 345 

Which the great anny of your foe outspreads, 
I would implore you to consent to peace, 

Prince, My own repute, and England's honour safe^ 
I ever have been ready, sir^ to treat. 

Car. Your Highness answers with a noble prudence^ 
And I will labour to accomplish it. 
It were most dismal that so many brave, 
As here await yon vast advancing host, 
Should peiii^ when so wise a.prince governs 
Their destinies. 

War. True ; nor, my lord, shall they* 

Prince. My good Lwd Warwick, let na hearwhat 
The foe will send. See that his messengar 
Pass safdy, and due honoured frotn the camp* 

346 TH£ C0NQU£8T OF FKANCE. . Act lUL 


The French Camp. 

John of France, the Cardinal, and Eustace de 


Car. Why should you, sir, desire to fight with 
They must be yours ; they camiot now escape* 
^Frdong the truce, sir, till to-morrow's dawn. 
And meanwhile let me urge the prince to terms. 

John. But on the terms I have already stated. 
Will I. consent to spare them» Four of their chiefs. 
The best they boast, must to our will be given. 
And with the prince, the army, one and all. 
Submit without condition. K thus they yield. 
The peace you wish for may be then agreed : 
Less will not serve ; we will have all, or battle. 

Eu8. My good Lord Cardinal, you toil in vsdn ; 
The French are confident in their great power. 
Nor will take any terms the prince can g^ve. 


Car^ If Fiance would reap a radonal advantage, 
She must consult the English character. 
I would this hand, yea, my own being, pawn,. 
That the whole armyj and the prince to boot. 
Will risk the conflict to the utmost sword. 
Bather than drink the bitter cup you offer. 
My royal lord, it is not, sir, the custom 
To woo with insults ; and the terms you offer 
Are such as might the meekest martyr move, 
On the bright throne of his beatitude ; 
Yet send you them to men with naked swords— < 
Soldiers I who have a hundred times shook hands 
With the gprim bloody Death, — ^yea, who e'en now, 
As they behold him frowning from this height^ 
Familiar jibe him as a sullen chiirl. 
That hath forgot their old companionship. 
By the blest Virgin and the holy mass^ 
Your message, sir, will make them fri^ds again. 

Jo^. You grow profane. 

Car. My lord, I prophesy 

A ministration suiting to my garb. 

John.. And yet you speak as you would aid the 

348 Tsm coNQtmsr of vrakcb, . AbHIZ 

Car. No : Heaven forlod ; bat I voiild coonsel 
Sir, on my soul, h would be great fenowa 
To share in c(MHpi*nag such a noUe foe. 
Slay them yon may, bat subjugate them never. 



lie EnglM Cax^. 

The Black Prince, Lord James Auolkt^ 
Warwick, &c. 

AwMeg. A boon, my lord. 
Prince. 'Tis gzinted^ though ttnkaown* 

Audky, Giaat me permission to perform a TOW. 
War. What I yoot James Audley,thmk to quit ^e 

Audley^ No, noble Warwick; but. I dkl once 

If ever fortune posted me ia batiks 
Where the kiag fought, or a«y of his saas. 
That I would be the foremost in attad^ 
And the best combatant, or fighting die* 


Warmck. Thy pardon, Audley. 
Audley. Warwick ne'er offends. 

Prime. The bounteous Heavens bestow on thee. 
Lord James, 
The choicest benedictions. In the war 
Shine ever prosperous above all knights, 
And thrive by the performance of thy vow. 
Now, Englishmen, what though we number few. 
And those so proudly in array against us, 
Waving more banners than we count right hands. 
Already deem us won ? let us remember stili 
From Heaven on high descends the victory. 
K the good fortune of the day be ours. 
We shall att^^ the summit of renown ; 
And should we fall, eonquer'd we cannot be. 
Have we not fathers, brothers, kindred, friends. 
Who will avenge our deaths ? Be JE^iglisfameny 
Firm to the stroke, and deadly at the bk>w. 
Theycoioe, tibey eome. Lord Warwick, -^ve the 
Wanokh* Saint George for E^laad, and the 

Prince. The Fri»ee^ of Waks |br En^imd a|id 
Saint George I [Exeunt. 


A Room in Windsor Castle. 

Philippa, Edward III. and Courtiers. 

Philippa. Has yet no tidings of the battle come ? 

Edward. None yet. 

Philippa. Would that they were I — Alas I alas I 

Edward. Sweet, do not droop, we shall have news 
You make me sad to see you so dejected. 

Philippa. I can no longer wrestle with my fears ; 
They overcome me, and I can but weep* . 
As on the battlements I anxious stood, 
I heard a soldier, just from London, tell 
His staid companions in the porch below, 
That all the town was fearfully astir, 
And guards were doubled at the tower and palace. 
Last night the shops were shut at set of sun. 
And every man went to his thoughtful neighbour. 
Men that had no acquaintance of each other 
Stopt in the streets, and awfully enqmred 


If any messenger had yet arrivecl ; — 
Groomsy menials, gentlemen and traders, «tood 
In boding groups in every thorough&re, 
Communing on the Prince's jeopardy ; 
And children, as if conscious they were orphans, 
Forsook their sports to share the general gloonu 
Ha I hark I they shout, they cry, a victory I 

Enter Warwick. 

Wanmch. Almighty God has bless'd your High- 
ness' arms. 
— The King of France is prisoner to your son. 
With such a list of knights and gentlemen. 
As ne'er triumphant Csesar brought to Rome. 

Edward. Bountiful God, the glory be to thee ! 

Philippa. Is my son well ? 

Warwick. He's an embodied blessing. 

Where all that Heaven for admiration makes 
Is blended and incorporate. In him 
So sweetly works the spirit of success, 
That those who by Us courage are subdued. 
Are by his courtesy more surely won. 


Edward. Where was the battle fbugbt ? 

WanoidL Ait FoictieiBy 

A name {hat ioDg as the sea-hiUovs lare 
The shores of England, shall witifi Cressjr shine : 
The ^ivina-— the bii^test of her destined trinmiifaSy 
The rpots anoestial of a royal raee« {ExemKtm 


A Street in London. 

The triumphal return of the Black Prince. KiNa 
3 ounj 'covered. The Prince cap in. hand. 

Ptmct. Ber not, xny gracioas loni, so sad of heart, 
Though Heaven has in its secret purposes 
I)enied your wisbes in tibe war's event, 
Yet was it pleased to bkas your roysl arm 
With bright succQis in battle penoskid. 
Come, sir, be cheerfiil; lie anrnred the King 
Will every koaoor that heemnes your gtesteess,. 
To the whole cojapsssc^ his power hertonw. 



John. By more than arms, dear Prince, you over- 
For with this gentle magnanimity, 
The sense of my disgrace is charm'd asleep ; 
And like a high and honoured guest I feel, 
Rather than what I am, a captive King, 
Swelling the pageant of his victor's triumph. 



■DurBxmaH: fumtbo bt BAUAimrzrjs and co., paui.*s wokk. 

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